She Cared for a Patient in Recovery, Not Knowing He Was a Millionaire Who’d Soon Love Her Forever
The Stubborn Patient in Room 412
The shrill beep of the heart rate monitor jolted Catherine Hayes from her moment of respite at the nurse’s station.
She leapt to her feet, stethoscope already in hand, and rushed down the corridor of St. Mercy Hospital’s rehabilitation wing toward Room 412.
Her tennis shoes squeaked against the freshly polished floor as she pushed through the door to find her newest patient attempting to stand unassisted.
His IV pole tipped precariously to one side.
“Mr. Callaway, please,” Catherine exclaimed, rushing to his side.
“You’re not cleared for unassisted walking yet. That’s why the alarm went off.”
Cade Callaway grimaced as she helped ease him back onto the hospital bed.
At 34, he should have been in his physical prime, but the car accident three weeks ago had left him with a shattered femur, two broken ribs, and a concussion that had kept him unconscious for thirty-six hours.
“I can’t just lie here all day,” he muttered, his voice husky with frustration.
“I have a company to run.”
Catherine adjusted his pillows and checked his IV.
“Your company will have to manage without you for a few more weeks, Mr. Callaway, unless you’d prefer to permanently damage that leg and never walk properly again.”
His green eyes narrowed at her, but Catherine had been a rehabilitation nurse for five years now.
She’d seen that combative look from patients before.
These were the ones who were used to being in control, the ones who hated dependency more than pain itself.
“Fine,” he relented, sinking back against the pillows.
“But I need my laptop and my phone.”
“You’ll have your phone for one hour in the morning and one in the evening as we discussed.”
“It is the doctor’s orders to prevent eye strain with your concussion,” she replied evenly.
“And the laptop is still a no. Now, are you ready for your physical therapy exercises, or would you prefer to sulk a bit longer?”
A surprised laugh escaped him, quickly followed by a wheeze as his ribs protested.
“Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner could use some work, Nurse Hayes?”
Catherine smiled as she prepared his pain medication.
“Only the patients who end up thanking me later. And you can call me Catherine.”
Over the next week, Catherine watched Cade Callaway’s determination grow, though he rarely spoke about his personal life.
His phone rang constantly during his allotted times.
She often caught him dictating notes to someone named Marcus about quarterly projections and the Singapore deal.
She assumed he was some mid-level executive at a local company, worried about losing his position during his absence.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she told him one afternoon after a particularly grueling physical therapy session.
He was sweating through his hospital gown, his jaw clenched against the pain, but he’d insisted on completing every exercise Dr. Wilson had prescribed.
“Not hard enough,” Cade muttered, accepting the water cup she offered.
“I should be further along by now.”
Catherine checked his vitals, noting the elevated heart rate.
“Mr. Callaway—”
“Cade, please,” he interrupted.
“If I’m going to be trapped here for weeks, we might as well be on a first-name basis.”
“Cade,” she corrected herself.
“You were in a head-on collision with a delivery truck. Your femur was broken in three places.”
“The fact that you’re already working with weights during PT is nothing short of miraculous.”
He took another sip of water, studying her over the rim of the plastic cup.
“Tell me something, Catherine. Do you always spend this much time with all your patients, or am I special?”
The question caught her off guard, and she felt a flush creeping up her neck.
It was true that she’d been spending more time in Room 412 than her other assignments required.
She told herself it was because Cade was a high fall risk given his stubbornness.
“I spend time where I’m needed,” she answered diplomatically.
“Oh,” he replied, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.
“Lucky me.”
By the third week of his stay, Catherine found herself looking forward to her shifts with an eagerness that both thrilled and concerned her.
Cade had proven himself to be intelligent, with a dry wit that made even the most tedious medical procedures bearable.
He’d stopped fighting against the rehabilitation process and had instead channeled his considerable focus into recovery.
“You have a visitor,” Catherine announced one morning as she entered his room with his medication.
“Your mother is here.”
Cade, who had been doing seated arm exercises with a resistance band, immediately dropped it.
“My mother? Are you sure?”
Before Catherine could answer, an elegant woman in her sixties swept into the room.
She was impeccably dressed in a designer suit that probably cost more than Catherine’s monthly rent.
“Darling,” the woman exclaimed, air-kissing Cade’s cheeks.
“This hospital is simply impossible to navigate. I had to tip a janitor twenty dollars to show me to your room.”
She glanced around with thinly veiled distaste.
“Really, Cade, I don’t understand why you insist on staying in this place when you could have private care at home.”
Catherine busied herself checking Cade’s vitals, trying to appear invisible.
“Mother, this is Nurse Hayes,” Cade said, gesturing toward her.
“She’s been overseeing my rehabilitation.”
The older woman gave Catherine a perfunctory smile.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re very competent, dear, but surely my son would recover faster with his own medical team.”
“The Callaway estate has six bedrooms sitting empty, and the pool house could easily be converted into a rehabilitation center.”
Catherine blinked, processing the words “Callaway Estate” and “Pool House” as she recorded Cade’s blood pressure on his chart.
Just who exactly was her patient?
“I’m staying here, Mother,” Cade said firmly.
“The team knows what they’re doing, and I’m making good progress.”
After his mother departed, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume and disapproval, Catherine couldn’t help but ask.
“Estate? Pool house?”
Cade shrugged, seeming almost embarrassed.
“My family has some property outside the city. My mother tends to exaggerate.”
The next day, Catherine was at the nurses’ station when she overheard two administrative assistants whispering excitedly.
“You know who’s in 412? Cade Callaway.”
“Yes, that Callaway. Callaway Shipping and Logistics.”
“Forbes listed him as having a personal net worth of over three hundred million last year.”
Catherine nearly dropped her clipboard.
She hurried to the computer and, against her better professional judgment, typed “Cade Callaway” into a search engine.
Hundreds of results appeared instantly.
There were news articles about massive philanthropic donations and photos of him at charity galas.
Business journals profiled the explosive growth of Callaway Shipping and Logistics under his leadership after he took over from his father six years ago.
The Cade Callaway in those photos looked different from her patient.
He was polished in custom suits with hair perfectly styled, usually with some gorgeous model or socialite on his arm.
But the eyes were unmistakable.
Those same intense green eyes that watched her as she adjusted his IV or helped him with his exercises.
All this time, she’d been treating one of the wealthiest men in the state as if he were just another patient.
And he’d let her.
