Deep Dive: An enemies-to-lovers billionaire romance (Deep Love Series) by Lauren Winter (best fiction books of all time TXT) 📗

house which means one step closer to leaving. I don’t want to leave when Amelia still doesn’t have an answer for me yet. I don’t want to leave without her.

I wander back into the kitchen. She has breaded the chicken breasts and now she’s throwing them into the bubbling oil. A delicious aroma fills the air.

“It’ll just be a few minutes,” she says as she tosses a tray of vegetables into the oven. Unlike me, she is quite good in the kitchen. She is efficient and exact with her cooking in ways that remind me of Rachel.

Rachel. Now that’s a name I don’t want to be thinking about right now. I shove it away like an old, lonely sock.

I get my hopes up again. Maybe she didn’t hear me earlier. “What do you think about my proposal?”

“What are you talking about?” She tries to check on the chicken and the two side dishes without burning any of it.

“Having your mom live here.”

She makes a face that also reminds me of Rachel. That impatient look lawyers get sometimes when you ask them a perfectly legit question, but they just think that you’re ignorant. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. I haven’t had time.”

I clench and unclench my jaw. “It’s a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ It’s not that hard. How long do you need to think about it?”

She accidentally burns her finger on the hot pan. She winces as she puts her burnt finger into her mouth, glaring at me with the look of “See? See now what you made me do.”

I should have apologized and fawned over her injured finger like a good boyfriend. That’s what I should have done. But my temper gets the better of me. I’m hurt. Here I am, putting my heart on the line and offering her my family home so that she won’t have to worry about her sick mother. I don’t even get a “thank you,” just an endless number of “I don’t know.”

“Where are you going? It’s going to rain.” Her voice trails from the kitchen. I don’t answer. Silently fuming, I grab the stack of paintbrushes and march out the front door. I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to finish the god-damned garage door.

I dip the brand new brush into the can of white paint that I just pried open with a knife. The light tan bristles go in and then come out coated with paint, forever changed. The paint is titanium white, thick like whole milk. I coat the wood in long, straight strokes. It’s not a very big door. A little taller than me and wide enough for a slightly larger compact car to go through. I can probably do two or three coats. And then I’m done. The house would be finished and ready to be put on the market for sale. Then I wouldn’t have any reason to be here anymore or to ever see her again.

I swirl the brush into the white liquid again and a couple of drops land by my shoe. They splatter into little white stars on the pavement. I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone after Rachel. But maybe I’m just being foolish. We barely know each other and now I’m ready to bring her into my life? I’m going to have her mother, a woman whom I still haven’t met, live in my family home? And the sad thing is that she doesn’t even want it. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.

I feel a few drops of water land on my face. Then a few more. I look up at a gray sky. Fat drops of rain land on me and the garage door, washing all of my efforts away.

“I told you it’s going to rain.” She stands on the front porch with her arms over her chest.

I fume and pack my tools away. I fight the urge to kick a new hole in the garage door.

“Lunch is ready.” Her voice is softer this time. I stand facing the street, even though I should head back. I can smell the inviting fragrance of a hot meal from the house, but I refuse to turn around and face her. She has made us main courses with side dishes and dessert. An extravagant mid-day meal. It’s like she’s pretending to be a mid-century homemaker who vacuums while wearing high heels. I don’t need a wife who cooks for me. I want a partner who makes decisions.

“You can eat now. It’ll just take a moment. Then you can come back and finish painting.” The inflection of her voice goes up as she suggests, hopefully.

I continue to be absorbed in my task. I know that I’m being childish by freezing her out, but I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t want to pressure her into something that she doesn’t want to do and then wake up with her packing her bags one day. Damn it, Rachel!

“Who’s Rachel?” Amelia’s cool, crisp voice asks.

I am mortified that I have spoken the name out loud without realizing it. I finally spin around and see Amelia staring at me with her cat-like green eyes.

“Nobody,” I mutter stiffly and set the paintbrush down.

She reaches for my hand, but I avoid her touch. “Come have some food?” she asks with pleading in her voice.

I should just say yes and go back into the house with her, but my feet are rooted to the ground. All I can think about are all the little signs Rachel had given me for months leading up to our breakup. She used work as an excuse to get away from me. She refused to commit to any long-term plans. Sometimes, stricken with guilt, she would play the perfect fiancé and make lavish meals for me to show that everything was alright. Check. Check. And check. I feel like there’s a lump of lead sitting in the pit of my stomach.

“If you don’t want