Chapter Six
Hayden
“Yep, that goes too. Into storage. And be careful with it. That table cost me ten thousand dollars.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Move the couches against the wall. We’ll reposition the television as well,” I said. “And my room will have to be rearranged as well.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“Yeah. The kitchen chair at the end of the table can be put in a corner somewhere. I won’t be needing it for a little while. In fact, put the extra chair in the second room on the right down the hallway. My new nurse can use it for whatever she wants.”
“The room next to yours?”
“That’s the one,” I said.
“Will we need to do anything with the upstairs, sir?”
“Nope. Won’t be going up there for a while.”
There were movers waiting for my new nurse to show up and men rearranging the furniture in my home. My two-story penthouse apartment was hardly the best place to recuperate, which meant I had to hire people to do the fucking work for me. It was embarrassing, to say the least. Telling men to fucking push couches around. I should be able to do that shit. I should be able to stand up from this damn wheelchair and take control of my environment.
But I couldn't.
So, I was having them rearrange and remove everything that could possible impede me from being able to live on my own. My new nurse-- Grace, I think her name was-- had agreed to move in and live with me on an around-the-clock basis. The original agreement was for her to commute. Here by six, out by eight. But my mother and sister weren’t having it. They insisted she move into one of my three guest bedrooms, and if she didn’t then she could move into my mother’s house and we’d stay there.
And that shit wasn’t going to happen.
Grace had been my ticket out of that damned place. Out from underneath the bickering of my sister and my mother. Fuck, I had gotten tired of hearing them bitch. And I was equally tired of my mother always having to help me out of my damn clothes and into the fucking shower. Having my sister do it was weird, but having my mother do it made me feel like I was a damn toddler.
In some ways, I felt like one.
So, I agreed to pay for her time from six in the morning until eight at night. If my sister and mother wanted her around-the-clock care, they could foot the rest of the damn bill. I figured that would shut them up about it, but instead they ended up doing just that. Which meant that with the money I was paying her and the money they were going to be shelling out for her, my nurse could live on her own after all this shit was done. For three fucking years.
Private nurses weren’t cheap, but the best were always worth it in the long run.
And Grace was going to be handsomely rewarded for her efforts.
There wasn’t an amount of money that could be put on getting me out of my mother’s house, though. I’d grown tired and exasperated with staring at that damn garden outback. It reminded me of my father. It reminded me of the walks we always used to take in the back garden. The talks we had about me taking over the company and the bitching I always did about college.
I missed that man.
A knock came at the door and one of the movers went to answer it. He swung the door open and there she stood, with her long curly hair and her yellow-speckled brown eyes. She was hauling a box in her hands and could hardly see over the damn thing, so I pointed at one of the movers and beckoned for him to take the box.
“Don’t just stand there. Help the poor woman,” I said.
“Thanks,” Grace said breathlessly.
She turned to leave, but one of the movers stopped her. She wasn’t going to be lifting a finger getting her stuff out of her car. Or moving van. Or whatever the hell she’d hauled her stuff in. They talked for a little bit before the man whistled, then disappeared out into the hallway.
“Do they need any help?” Grace asked.
“No,” I said.
“Maybe I should go help them.”
“Don’t.”
She looked over at me and rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. She was chewing on it nervously. She obviously felt out of place. Her eyes were darting around the place I’d called home for a few years now, and I could tell she was impressed.
She was trying not to show it, but she was taken by it.
“The layout’s simple,” I said. “This is the living room, over there’s the kitchen. Down that hallway is my room as well as yours. I’m the first door on the right, you’re the second. The laundry room is the door on the left-hand side of the hallway and it you keep going down the hallway, it dead ends into a library with an electric fireplace.”
“What’s upstairs?” she asked.
Her eyes were no longer darting around, but now situated on my gaze.
“More rooms. Another small sitting room. Places I won’t visit for a while until I’m out of this contraption.”
I tapped the arms of my wheelchair and watched her slowly nod her head.
“The bathroom?” she asked.
“There’s a bathroom attached to every room,” I said. “Down the hall, second door on the right. Go into the room and the bathroom door is off in a corner somewhere.”
“Okay.”
But she didn’t move from her place.
“Aren’t you going to use it?”
“Just wanted to know where it was,” Grace said.
“Ah.”
“So, who does-?”
“Where do you want these boxes?” the mover asked.
Four men barged in with massive cardboard boxes in their hands.
“In her room, of course,” I said flatly.
“Which room was that again?”
“Down the hall, second door on the right,” Grace said.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“No problem,” she said with a grin.
It lit up her eyes before she cleared her throat and let it fall from her cheeks. She was obviously uncomfortable and very out of place. I was starting to regret hiring her. After all, I was her first private client. Which meant none of her theories or practices were tested. And I knew tiptoeing around an uncomfortable person for the next couple of months wasn’t going to help with my recuperation at all.
But the way she’d effortlessly picked me up off the floor.
It had been shocking, to say the least.
“Once the movers are done you can begin unpacking. For now, however, I’d stay out of their way.”
“That’s fine,” Grace said. “Understandable.”
I sighed and turned myself towards the kitchen, then began wheeling myself through the archway.
“Would you like me to make-?”
“No,” I said curtly. “I can make my own food.”
“But sometimes, specific diets help promote the body’s internal healing.”
I paused my movements and slowly wheeled myself around so I was facing her.
“Like…?”
“Fresh fruits and vegetables. Certain fatty meats, like fish. Salmon. Sardines. Nuts.”
“Didn’t know nuts were a meat.”
A small giggle fell from Grace’s lips and I found a heat pooling in my gut. The movers were headed back out the door to go get another handful of her things and I could tell the joke eased her into the atmosphere. But I hoped she didn’t get the wrong picture. I wasn’t here to make friends. I wasn’t here to work on my interpersonal skills. I hired her to help me get my ass back to work so I could fix the shit still plaguing my company and this damn abandoned project.
“I was going to offer to make you something, or at least grocery shop to stock foods that would help you with your recuperation. Especially given your upcoming surgery.”
I nodded and wheeled my chair around before I started into the kitchen. I wasn’t interested in her cooking skills. Nor was I interested in her stocking my refrigerator with foods. All I needed was her supposed medical expertise.
And if she didn’t have them, she’d be fired.
Simple as that.
“Ma’am?” one of the movers asked.
“Yes? Sorry. What is it?”
“We don’t see anymore boxes in your car.”
“Yeah, I only packed eight or nine of them,” she said. “Thank you guys so much for your help. Could I tip you or something?”
“I’ve got it,” I said.
“Yes. Mr. Lowell takes care of all that,” the mover said.
“Oh. Okay. Then um… well, thank you again,” she said.
I wheeled over to the fridge and ripped the door open. I could hear Grace’s small footsteps padding along the cherry mahogany floors of my home. I opened the bottle of water and grabbed an apple, then set everything in my lap and backed away.
The fridge just with a thump as Grace rounded the corner.
“Your home is lovely,” she said. “Really, it’s beautiful.”
“Help yourself,” I said.
I wheeled past her, ready to get to the tightened confines of my room.
“Do you have a specific physical therapy schedule outlined?”
“Isn’t that your job?” I asked.
I raced myself down the hallway, trying to get out of the line of her conversation. I wasn’t interested in her or her opinions or her thought processes. I wasn’t interested in being friends or lovers or wooing her until she let me fuck her into the mattress.
Hell, I couldn't even do that kind of shit with the condition my body was in.
“Where are you going?” Grace asked.
I turned to wheel into my room and snapped my head over to her.
“My room,” I said curtly. “I’ll see you for dinner.”
Then I wheeled in, slammed the door behind me, and drank in the sound of silence.
This was what I needed. Silence. I rolled my way over to the window and looked out along the city as I set my bottle of water on my bedside table. I took a bite of the apple in my hand as my eyes scanned the horizon, relishing the silence.
This was why I enjoyed my home. This was why I paid top-dollar to live here. The noise ordinances were some of the strictest in the entire city and the security and discretion this place had a reputation for was unprecedented. No sneaked pictures of the hotel mogul in his wheelchair. No anonymous interviews with the front desk as to my bullshit attitude.
And no one would be able to access Grace about my medical trials and tribulations.
I heard a small pair of feet walk down the hallway before the door next to me opened. Grace was headed to her room. Probably to unpack. I could hear the slight tearing of tape as I took another bite of my apple and I could feel my skin prickling. My precious silence was dissipating with every rip of tape and every drop of a box on the floor. I gritted my teeth as I grabbed my water, then cracked it open and began to chug. The cool liquid fell down my throat and I could feel it trickling to my stomach.
Then, I felt it.
I set my water bottle down onto the bedside table and wheeled back from the window. I headed into my bathroom and was quickly reminded of the fact that I’d need Grace’s help. Fuck, I hated this. My wheelchair got through the doorway, but between the damn towel closet and the knobs on the bathroom drawers and shit, it was hard to maneuver myself in. I took it slowly. Carefully. Trying not to get my clothes hooked on anything.
I sighed with relief when I parked myself in front of the toilet.
It was a struggle, getting my pants down around my ankles. I bit down onto my lower lip so I could conceal my struggles from the woman next door. There were many things she’d be employed to do for me, but holding my dick while I peed wasn’t one of them. I settled my feet onto the floor and pushed myself up from my chair, praying to the fucking gods above that the brakes on my wheelchair would hold steady.
I leaned my body against the edge of the bathroom counter so I could turn around and sit on the toilet. The owner and operator of the largest international luxury hotel chain, and I was peeing sitting down. I placed my elbows on my knees and put my hands in my face, waiting for my private embarrassment to be over.
But the searing pain that shot through my hip caused me to groan out.
“Mr. Lowell?”
Shit.
“Mr. Lowell, are you okay?”
A light rapping at my door sounded and I bit back the pain as another electrical jolt shot down my leg.
“Mr. Lowell, I’m coming in.”
“No, you’re not,” I said.
But I couldn't hold back the hiss of pain as it shot up my back.
“Yes, I am,” Grace said.
“Stay out.”
This woman wasn’t going to see me with my fucking pants and boxers down around my damn ankles. My cock was out, for fuck’s sake. I stood up from the toilet as fast as I could, listening to my door swing open. I bent down to grab my pants as fast as I could, but in the process I lost my balance and fell over.
“Mr. Lowell!”
My hands caught me against the clawfoot tub as I felt a pair of arms around my body. I tried to shrug her off as the heat of embarrassment crept into my face. She hoisted me up into the air and bent down, pulling my damn clothes up my fucking body.
“Get off,” I said.
“Sit down,” Grace said.
She was in the process of buckling my pants as I sat down hard into my wheelchair. Her nostrils were flaring and her face was red. What the hell was she so upset about?
“Get out,” I said.
“Not until we talk,” she said.
“I’m fine.”
But she put her arm out in my way, propping her hand against the edge of the bathroom sink so I couldn't move.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but so long as you’re in my care, you’ll play by my rules. This type of stuff? You don’t do on your own right now. I don’t know what kind of physical therapy program your other nurses had you on, but they’re clearly not sufficient. And if you think me catching you with your pants around your ankles is bad enough? You just wait until this hip surgery. I’ll be bathing you, Mr. Lowell. Top to bottom. So get used to it.”
Her eyes were heated and the tone of her voice was defiant. I didn’t like it. I didn't take orders from people. They took them from me. I knocked her arm out of the way and wheeled out of the bathroom, cursing myself as I got my shirt caught on the bathroom door. I wheeled back to the window I was sitting in front of as I heard the toilet flush behind me, then the small pitter patter of feet left my room and shut the door behind the sound.
I didn’t know much, but I knew one thing was for sure.
That woman was definitely not bathing me.