Chapter 2 - The Battle of the Morning Routine
By the second morning, Riley fully understood why six trained medical professionals had fled the Mercer estate in tears or quiet fury.
Caring for someone with a high-level thoracic spinal cord injury was not graceful, cinematic, or clean. It was intimate, grueling, mechanical work that required absolute precision and zero ego. Jonah needed assistance transferring from his customized Tempur-Pedic bed to his shower chair, help dressing, aggressive stretching to prevent severe muscle contractures, bowel and bladder management routines, and meticulous skin checks to ward off deadly pressure ulcers.
He hated every single second of it.
The first time Riley operated the ceiling-mounted mechanical patient lift above his bed, Jonah’s entire body went rigid, his shoulders locking into hard plates of muscle.
“Relax,” Riley said, adjusting the nylon sling straps beneath his hips.
“I am paralyzed from the chest down, Ms. Quinn,” he ground out, his voice tight with suppressed humiliation. “Relaxation is not currently an autonomic option.”
“Yes, well, your back muscles are currently tighter than a piano wire,” she retorted, leaning over him to secure the chest clip. “And if you don't soften up, I’m going to drop you three inches short of the chair.”
“If you drop me, I will ensure you never work in healthcare again.”
“You’re making the sling harder to position, Mercer. Stop fighting the straps.”
“I am literally incapable of moving my legs, yet you manage to find ways to make me feel entirely unhelpful.”
“You are successfully maintaining a remarkably high level of irritation,” Riley fired back without missing a beat, hauling down on the hydraulic lever with a grunt.
The lift hissed, raising Jonah smoothly off the mattress. For a second, as he hung suspended in the canvas sling, his eyes locked onto hers with a flash of raw, naked vulnerability that he instantly tried to mask behind a wall of pure ice. Being hoisted like dead weight by a woman half his size was a bitter pill for a man who used to own the waterfront.
As Riley guided the lift toward the roll-in shower, her elbow accidentally clipped his ribs.
Jonah’s breath hissed sharply between his teeth. “Careful.”
“Sorry.”
“Competence would be vastly preferable to your apologies, Riley.”
Riley stopped the lift dead in its tracks, turning to glare at him with her hands planted firmly on her hips. Her scrub top was already stained with coffee and disinfectant, and her hair was escaping its messy bun again.
“Listen to me, Mr. Mercer,” she said, her voice dropping all professional pretense. “I am doing the heavy lifting here—literally. If you want a robot that doesn't bump your ribs, order one from Silicon Valley. If you want someone who is going to keep you out of a hospital bed with a grade-four ulcer, you need to stop acting like a wounded bear and cooperate.”
Jonah stared at her, stunned into silence. Nobody spoke to him like that. Not his lawyers, not his bankers, not even Frank.
Finally, a dark, dangerous glint appeared in his gray eyes. “You have a remarkable talent for insubordination.”
“It’s on my resume,” she shot back, unlocking the wheels. “Now, do we want to take a shower today, or are we going to spend the next hour arguing about my bedside manner?”
By the fourth day, the routine had settled into an unspoken, volatile rhythm. Riley bullied him into eating high-protein meals, forced him through agonizing stretches that brought sweat to his forehead, and refused to let him hide behind his computer screens all afternoon. In return, Jonah watched her with a sharp, calculating intensity that suggested he was cataloging every single thing about her.
He noticed the way she drank three cups of black coffee before 8:00 AM. He noticed the frayed cuffs of her sweaters. He noticed how she always checked her phone twice whenever she thought he wasn't looking—probably staring at another past-due notice.
The true test of their fragile truce, however, arrived on a rainy Thursday afternoon when disaster struck the kitchen.
Riley was attempting to unload a top-shelf rack of crystal glassware while balancing a medical chart under her arm. The sleek, polished marble counter was notoriously slippery, and her hands were still damp from washing up.
Clatter. Crash. Shatter.
Six heavy, crystal highball glasses exploded across the pristine white marble floor in a glittering, lethal cascade of shards.
Footsteps thundered down the hallway. Frank Dorsey appeared in the kitchen doorway instantly, his hand darting beneath his jacket toward his concealed firearm, his eyes scanning for threats.
A second later, the smooth, mechanical hum of tires rolling over hardwood announced Jonah. He rolled into the doorway, his dark eyes surveying the glittering wasteland of broken glass scattered across the floor.
Riley stood frozen in the middle of the carnage, a single shard resting near the toe of her sneaker, looking down at the disaster with an expression of profound, unmitigated defeat.
May you like
She slowly raised her eyes to meet Jonah’s.
“Well,” Riley whispered, her voice deadpan. “On a scale of one to ten, how soon should I pack my box?”
