It had been two months since that fucking accident, but I still wasn't healed. And I was waiting for my fourth surgery to take place. I had a follow-up hip surgery that was required of me in order to walk again. In order to function again.
In order to get out of this damn wheelchair.
I hated the fucking thing. It was a symbol of everything that had been ripped from me that day. Of the luxury hotel that fell through and the losses my COO cut when I couldn't come back to work. It had sunk my company's reputation and I was stuck with no other decisions I could make to come back. The fucking luxury chain that was supposed to start up got put on pause and things resumed normally. Despite the contracting company that tanked the project.
Despite the money I had to schmooze out of the investors.
Despite the sleepless nights trying to keep behind everyone on it.
From a business perspective, I got it. John made the right fucking call. But from a personal perspective? From a 'forwarding the company' perspective? It was a shit call. One that boiled my blood as I listened to my sister and mother continue to bicker behind me.
I wished they would shut the fuck up.
"He hasn't left the house in two months, Mom. We need to get him a nurse that can help him with his daily physical therapy."
"Cara, he isn't going outside because he can't move. He isn't going outside because he's depressed. That's why we need a new nurse. The ones being sent to us aren't filling him with any kind of hope of recovery," my mother said.
"That isn't their job. They aren't therapists. They don't care about his feelings. Hell, Alfred doesn't care about his feelings half the time," my sister said.
"Keep your voice down. He'll hear you."
Seriously? They were standing seven feet behind me.
And they were right. I hadn't left the house since the accident. Why the fuck would I? The last thing the press needed were snaps of the CEO of the best luxury hotel chain in the world in a goddamn wheelchair. Being pushed around by some homely-looking nurse who had to flex his fucking legs every two hours. Why the hell would I go out in public like that? Why the fuck would anyone?
I hadn't left my parent's house since the accident, and I didn't plan on it until I could walk again.
I couldn't care for myself on my own. I couldn't cook for myself. I couldn't even fucking drive myself places. I couldn't shower on my own or reach the damn toothbrush on my own or get up the fucking stairs. It was the most miserable and isolated I'd ever felt in my life. I couldn't show that kind of image to the public. My company was already stalemating. Governing it from my parent's dining room was bad enough. Knowing it wasn't going anywhere until I got back was bad enough.
But risking demolishing the strong reputation my family had built over the decades?
Nope. Not fucking happening.
I closed my eyes as the wind began to whip around outside. I tried to imagine what it would feel like on my face. My mother and sister were still going at it behind me, trying to make a fucking decision.
And not once asking me to weigh in on it. Which was fine. It wasn't like my opinion mattered any longer. It didn't matter anywhere. I had to fight twice as hard to get bullshit stuff done at work. I had to yell twice as hard to be heard in the video conferences my investors wanted. I had to wave my one good arm twice as hard to get my mother's attention.
It wasn't worth the effort.
Not with them, anyway.
The doorbell rang out and neither one of them moved. They continued to debate over whether or not to hire a new nurse, and I was getting sick of their voices. The daydream of walking through the garden with my father was no longer providing me the comfort it used to, so I wheeled away from the window and headed through the kitchen.
Down the hallway.
Away from their voices.
I wheeled towards the door and reached for the handle. I pulled it open and was met with the familiar scent of orchids and lilies. The same arrangement six times a week that kept me company at the kitchen table. The same arrangement I had carried to my room whenever it was time to go to bed.
Delivered by the same beautiful girl every fucking time.
She really was an attractive woman. Long, brown curly hair I would enjoy wrapping my fingers within. A full lower lip that begged to be nibbled. A soft smile that accented the peaks of her flushed cheeks. Tits that spilled over her confining bra and hips that filled out her tight ass jeans. Delicate hands that wrapped around the thick vase the flowers always came in.
And beautiful brown eyes, strewn with yellow that peeked through the flowers to see where she was going.
"Delivery," she said.
"Over on the table's fine," I said.
She looked from beyond the flowers, acting like she was startled to see me. Her eyebrows rose to her hairline as I wheeled myself out of the way. There was no use in paying her any mind. It wasn't like women were attracted to wheelchairs. To men who couldn't stand and escort them anywhere. Or pick them up for dates. Or fucking get in a damn restaurant by himself.
Or pick them up and fuck them senseless against a window.
"You're looking better today," the woman said.
"Yep," I said.
"How's the new nurse working out?"
"She's not," I said.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
I grunted and kept my back to her as she settled the vase on the small table against the wall.
"How's the garden doing?" she asked.
"It's fine."
"Do you have it professionally tended to?"
"Do you care?"