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“I know you’re worried, son, but I still think you’re making too big of a deal about this. I fell. Accidents happen. I’ll be more careful from now on.”
“You can’t trudge up and down those steps in an air cast.” He lowered his voice. “Not in your condition.”
“I was recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s,” his mother explained to Bree, then turned her attention back to him. “There’s a banister. Besides, it’s not as if I can’t put any pressure on the foot. And I need my stuff. You don’t plan to bring my entire bedroom down, do you?”
Bree excused herself and left the kitchen as he and his mother continued to debate the topic. It was one argument Lena Adams wouldn’t win. She was going to sleep on the ground floor, whether she liked it or not.
“Excuse me.” Bree returned a few minutes later, smiling. “But I think I might have a solution that’ll satisfy you both.”
“I’m all ears.” His mother gave Bree her attention.
“By all means.” Wes gestured for her to continue.
She asked them to follow her to the front of the house.
“Your kitchen has ample eating space, but you also have a formal dining room, which it seems you don’t use much.” Bree indicated the piles of papers and books that had accumulated on his mother’s table again since his last cleaning.
“Point taken.” His mother chuckled. “Go on.”
“Well, it’s such a lovely space. It’s a shame you don’t get more use out of it. The room is spacious and the pretty bay window faces that lovely little park across the street.”
His mother nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a sizable room and it does have a beautiful view. But it doesn’t have a door and it’s right at the entrance. Visitors will have full view of my bedroom.”
“That’s a simple fix.” Bree’s eyes lit up. “You could add a wall here and put in a door.”
“What happens if she decides to sell the house? Not everyone will want a first-floor bedroom in lieu of a formal dining room.” Wes appreciated what Bree was trying to do, but he had to be practical. He wanted his mother to be comfortable, but they couldn’t ruin the resale value of the house.
“A valid point.” Bree tilted her head, her chin resting on her fist for a moment. She snapped her fingers. “Add a pretty set of French doors instead of a traditional door.”
“Guests would still be able to see into my bedroom.”
“Not if you mount thick curtains on the door.” Bree’s gaze shifted from his mother, then to him, and back again.
A wide smile spread across his mother’s face, her eyes dancing. “That’s a brilliant idea, Brianna. My nephew Dallas is a contractor. He mentioned yesterday that the job they were supposed to work on for the next few days got rescheduled. Maybe he can squeeze me in. He’ll be here soon, but I’m going to call him now, so he can give his crew plenty of notice. Besides, I don’t want him to give someone else my spot.”
“You object?” Bree asked when his mother left the room.
“No. Seems you have everything figured out.”
“Why do I have the feeling we’re not talking about the plans to relocate your mother’s bedroom anymore?” Bree stepped closer.
Her sweet, citrusy scent—like mandarin oranges and orange blossoms—filled his nostrils. The two nights they’d spent together in Asheville rushed to mind with a vivid clarity. A knot tightened low in his belly. His heartbeat quickened and his temperature rose as he recalled the way her brown skin glowed in the moonlight. It took every ounce of willpower he could muster to refrain from leaning down and kissing her soft, glossy lips.
Bree seemed to relish her power over him, and the fact that with his mother just a few feet away, he was forced to keep his hands to himself.
Pure torture.
“Dallas says he can have his crew here in the morning.” His mother returned, saving him from the need to respond to Bree’s statement. “He’ll be here soon to take measurements. The job should only take a couple of days.”
“We still need to move your bed downstairs for now.” Wes folded his arms.
