Bryan nodded. “Hell yeah. You never heard of Julian Smoke? They called him ‘The Smoke’ in college because he was a beast. He was even pegged as the next tennis great of his generation.”
Amalie studied Julian’s face, willing herself to remember him from one of her father’s endless tennis ramblings. “What happened?” she asked, bringing her gaze back to the bartender.
“That’s his story to tell. You’ll have to ask him.”
Amalie drummed her fingers on the smooth surface of the bar one last time before releasing a deep breath and making a decision she was sure she’d regret. “Help me get him to my car, will ya?”
Chapter Two
Amalie
Why did the answer to her problems have to be a tall, heavy, stumbling drunk?
“God, can you at least try to walk straight or, ya know, hold your body up a little more?” Amalie panted as Julian’s increased weight made her stumble, her legs burning beneath the pressure. The faint hint of sandalwood cologne wafted beneath layers of alcohol, and his skin felt hot beneath her touch. She had one of his enormous arms draped across her neck, and each step made her grunt with effort. She was too small and too out of shape for this. A burst of freezing air sent a shiver over her body. She’d left her jacket at home so her sexy off the shoulder sweater would be on display.
The door to the pool house was in sight. So close, yet so far away.
Julian startled at her words. His eyes opened and then his head lolled, his body slumping over, so he practically engulfed her.
Amalie tried to ignore the contact, because this was the closest anyone had been to her in a minute and it felt good. Nope. No, don’t think that. It didn’t feel good at all. This guy was unbelievable.
As if to prove her unspoken thoughts, Julian leaned further down and took a deep sniff of her neck, his nose tickling her skin, startling her with an even more keen awareness of him. Had his lips accidentally brushed her pulse?
His head snapped up and a faint little dimple popped in his cheek, his eyes glassy as he pulled away. “You smell nice. What is that? Cupcakes? I like cupcakes.”
Ugh. Why’d he have to be so cute, but such a jerk? The Julian from the bar was a no go.
Amalie shook her head, the movement brushing against his solid bicep. “It’s none of your concern, and I’d thank you not to sniff me anymore.”
Finally, they were at the door. She blew out a breath as she tried to unlock it while keeping Julian upright. He mumbled unintelligibly, but as soon as the door swung open, he magically regained usage of his legs. She watched as he staggered like a baby deer into her home, all kinds of cuss words flowing through her mind.
“You couldn’t have used your legs earlier?” She slammed the door behind her, still trying to catch her breath.
Julian stopped in her living room and did a slow spin, causing him to stumble this way and that. Her eyes did a quick scan and immediately started to shove the coffee table out of the way in case he fell.
“Did you take me to a hotel room?” he asked. “This is a nice hotel room. It’s big, but little all at the same time, like a teensy, wittle baby house. It’s so cute and small. Not like me. I mean I’m cute, but I’m not small.”
His voice had gone to a lilt, and he looked so young that it quickly chased away Amalie’s foul mood. She pressed her hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. She didn’t answer him as she continued moving other possible hazards out of his way.
“Where are we? Are you going to seduce me? I’m telling you now that I’m on board with that. I think you’d like it. I know I would.”
Amalie straightened. “Not gonna happen, buddy.”
Apparently, that was a challenge because Julian started to sway in some kind of pseudo-seduction dance, and then he reached to take off his shirt.
It didn’t come off easily. He got stuck in it, maybe even freaked out about it.
When Amalie finally stopped laughing long enough to catch her breath, she took pity on him and moved over to help him pull the tee over his head. He took a deep gulp of air and then his eyes met hers, panic dissipating.
She bit her lip as her eyes betrayed her, roaming over his nakedness. He was so beautiful. When she looked at his face again, those star-flecked eyes studied her, like he could see to her soul.
Amalie hung transfixed in his spell before finally shaking her head and taking several steps backward. She needed to get him to the couch, for him to sit there and not move. She let loose a small yelp when she realized what was still splayed across the cushions.
Julian followed her gaze to a pile of clean laundry, underwear that she still hadn’t put away.
“Sexy panties,” he said, lumbering toward the couch like a hot Frankenstein, hands outstretched to grab the scanty slips of material.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Amalie rushed forward, one arm out to sweep her undies into her other hand. “Those are not for you to see.”
“Yet. But I will eventually. Sexy undies for a sexy lady.” He snagged the lone pair that didn’t make it into her hurried grasp.
Amalie dropped the underwear onto a kitchen chair and came running back, trying to get the thong out of his hand. Julian was too tall and lifted it so high that she felt like a chihuahua nipping at his heels.
He dipped his head as he pocketed the undies. “I’m so sleepy.”
Amalie pinched her lips together at the sight of her bright red thong sticking out of his pocket. She made herself remember the reason for all of this, the reason she was even putting up with this mess. She knew Julian was drunk, but there was something she had to ask.
“Hey, how badly do you want to get to the US Open?” She edged closer to him, hands wringing.
He propped a hand on the back of the couch, his eyes even heavier lidded than before. “I…I want it more than anything, but it’s impossible,” he slurred.
“What if I can get you there? What if I can make it happen?” She cocked her head to the side, realizing she was quickly losing him. He was minutes from passing out. Again.
“You can’t. You live in this tiny, itsy bitsy,” he held his pointer finger and thumb together, “house or hotel or whatever this place is. Tennis is expensive, more than I can afford.” He shuffled to the front of the couch.
“But what if I could? What would you be willing to do for me?” She regretted the words instantly.
A sexy smirk tilted his lips, and then his hands went to the button on his jeans, his thumb tracing that sexy trail of hair right above it. “Are you propositioning me?”
Amalie forced herself to look away.
“Oh, no you don’t,” she said while blindly smacking at his hand, ignoring that little bit of drool pooling at the corner of her mouth from his impromptu show. “You are not about to completely undress here.”
Suddenly her hand smacked at emptiness and she turned to see that Julian had fallen onto the couch haphazardly, one hand still on his fly. He was out cold. She growled in aggravation as she dug her underwear from his jeans, careful to keep her eyes averted even though those traitors wanted to look their fill.
After rearranging him as best she could, she looked down at his unconscious form, still feeling a little breathless. She’d found out what she needed to know. Julian could be bought.
“You don’t know it yet, but you’re going to save me from a life I don’t want, Julian Smoke.”
She stepped out of the pool house into the cool night air and wasted no time seeking out her father.
Nausea churned Amalie’s stomach as she lifted her clammy hand to knock on her father’s office door.
“Come in,” he boomed.
She squeezed her eyes shut before twisting the door handle.
Andrew Warner’s study had been off-limits since she was little. As a matter of fact, as she stood in the immaculate room completely overwhelmed by dark wood, she realized she’d only been in there maybe twice in her life. She wasn’t surprised, however, to find Simone standing near the fireplace, o
ne hand on the mantle, the other holding a glass of water.
Simone was tall, taller than Amalie by about five inches, slender and willowy where Amalie had curves. Where Amalie’s hair looked like a curtain of fire, Simone’s was a short ebony wave, cut in a cheek-grazing bob and fringe that fluttered atop her lashes, making her look like silent film star Louise Brooks. What Amalie loved most about her sister was not that she put actual supermodels to shame with her beauty, but that she was even more gorgeous on the inside. Simone Warner-Lennox loved fiercely and protected vigilantly, but she was also the most giving soul. As part of her “heiress training,” she demanded that Andrew Warner get more involved in worthy causes and donate more often to charities. Lord knows they had the change to spare. Amalie imagined her father as Scrooge McDuck, swimming in a pool full of his gold. He only gave if there was something in it for him—a return—which made what Amalie was about to do all the more difficult.
Amalie dared a glance at her father, who kept rapidly blinking at her intrusion, a scrunched-up look on his face. Immediately cowed, her gaze moved to her sister.
Simone’s head drew back in surprise. “Amalie!” Quickly recovering, she placed her glass on the mantle before moving to gather Amalie in a tight hug. “I was going to drop by and visit tonight.”
Amalie’s heart swelled as her sister’s perfume, one that reminded her of days at the beach, tickled her nose. She adored her sister, even though they couldn’t be more polar opposites. Warner Hotels CEO had always been Simone’s dream, whereas Amalie couldn’t get far enough away. Because of that fact, it was beyond obvious that Simone was their father’s favorite. Andrew had always been an absent father, but things shifted after their mom left. He’d become more business- and Simone-oriented than ever, while still trying to control Amalie. He liked to remind her of her failure as a writer, saying that maybe it was time to settle into the “real world.” Through it all, Simone was there, ready and willing to help Amalie pick up the pieces.
“Enough of that, girls. Amalie, I have business to discuss with Simone, so whatever this is, make it quick,” Andrew snapped. His gray-blue eyes were shrewd as he took a slow sip from the whiskey tumbler in his hand. He sucked his teeth afterward, a habit her mother used to despise. He didn’t care, of course. If it didn’t deal with money, it didn’t particularly matter to Andrew Warner.
Amalie steeled her spine and lifted her chin, even though it was the opposite of what she felt. Andrew had coached his girls not to show emotion, not to cry, to essentially be made of ice. Amalie was anything but that, yet in his presence she had to pretend, even if it felt like killing a piece of herself. “I’ve got a new idea for a novel—”
Her father’s scoff cut her off, but Simone quickly stepped in. “Hear her out.”
“Fine. Continue.” He gestured with a disinterested twirl of his fingers, his eyes still studying the documents spread out before him.
“I’ve met a former tennis star, and he wants to compete for the US Open. I thought…I thought this would make a great idea for a novel, fictionalizing his attempt.”
Her father’s head snapped up. “I can tell you right now, that idea will fail. You know nothing about tennis.”
Amalie flinched as she silently cursed herself for showing weakness in front of this man.
Simone scowled but turned her attention to Amalie. “What do you need to make this happen? Money? Maybe I can help.”
Amalie nodded. “Definitely money—”
“No,” their father interjected. “If anyone finances this, it’ll be me. Now tell me what you need money for.” Amalie knew he wouldn’t dare be overruled by anyone, let alone one of his daughters. Well played, sis.
“I need enough financing for a trainer, a coach, entry fees for tournaments, travel expenses…” At least that’s everything she’d learned from the internet before walking over from the pool house.
Andrew leaned forward, hands clasped on his desk. “Name?”
Amalie shot a quick glance at Simone, then back at her father. “Ah, Julian Smoke.”
Cruel laughter filtered through the room as her father tilted his head back. He made a show of wiping nonexistent tears from his face when he finally calmed down. “Julian Smoke? He’s a joke. He’s what, thirty? Tennis players retire when they reach their thirties, unless they’re one of the greats…” Andrew sat up straighter, his eyes flashing. Amalie knew that look. She’d seen it countless times when he was being ruthless with competitors—all flashing teeth and condescension. “Actually, I have an idea, Amalie. I think we can form a financial arrangement that suits us both. You know you have a decision to make. Work for me at Warner Hotels, or you’re on your own. Your head is in the clouds, you’re a daydreamer—you’re not a Warner, not where it counts.”
Ouch. Amalie sensed Simone move closer to her, placing a steady hand on her back. That gesture alone was nearly enough to send the tears falling.
“This adventure will fail, I know,” he continued. “I have a knack for this kind of thing—”
“Then why finance it at all? I know you hate wasting money.” Amalie surprised herself by speaking up and was proud that her voice hadn’t cracked like everything else inside her.
“I’ll consider it charity work. But when this falls apart—and mark my word, it will—you’ll see that you aren’t a writer, that you are nothing more than a one-hit-wonder who got a lucky break early in life, and you’ll come to work for me. No more of this back-and-forth, finding-your-bliss talk. You will carry on our family legacy, and you will be proud to do it, just like your sister.”
Simone stiffened. “I wish you’d leave me out of this.”
Simone hated being the barb thrown down in a fight, but this was Andrew Warner, and that was what he always did. Besides, Amalie was still trying to sift through the other slight, the one where he reminded her of the day her dreams shattered, the day she became caged.
Not wanting to give her father a chance to draw Simone into it any further, Amalie said, “So that’s it? That’s what’s in it for you? A big fat I-told-you-so? A way to bring me to heel?”
Andrew nodded sharply. “Amalie, you might not believe it, and I know I might not have the best way of showing it, but I do love you. You’re my daughter. I only want what’s best for you, and a writing career isn’t it. Do you know how competitive that industry is? Do you know how few authors can actually feed themselves off a writing career alone? You’re chasing a pipe dream when you have a job waiting for you at Warner Hotels, a job that comes with automatic status and a regular, dare I say handsome, paycheck. It’s security, Amalie. Security is everything. I can give you that.”
Yeah, but in exchange he’d be clipping her wings.
She nearly asked if this had something to do with her mother. Simone mentioned that maybe he’d changed because he was scared of being alone. Amalie was sure it had to do with the fact that their mom once had dreams of being a writer, and that part of the reason she ran off with the yoga instructor was because he supported said dreams. She’d overheard her mother yelling at Andrew one night, saying that she was tired of the debutante schtick and wanted something more. In that way, Amalie supposed she was more like Katharine Warner than she thought, and that probably scared the shit out of her father…probably made him wonder when, not if, she’d leave.
Either way, here was her chance to finally prove she was worth more than her last name. She was worthy of so much more—of love and respect, not constant ridicule.
She took a nervous step to shake her father’s hand, all while praying this would work. If not, she’d be stuck doing what she’d been trying so desperately to avoid all these years.
With all the confidence she could muster, Amalie looked Andrew Warner in the eye and said, “Then you’ve got yourself a deal.”
Chapter Three
Julian
Julian woke to a foreign sound: the rattling of pots and dishes. The smell of bacon tickled his nose, but the pounding in his head captured the maj
ority of his attention.
Damn, how much did he drink last night?
He cracked one eye open with no idea where he was. He sat up slowly, like a vampire from one of those old black-and-white movies, his hands scrubbing down the stubble of his face, the sound loud enough to drown out the frantic beating of his heart. He was no stranger to waking up in random girls’ homes, but this? This felt a little too domestic after a one-night stand.
Then it registered—if it was a one-night stand, then why the hell was he covered by a blue quilt on someone’s couch? He stood hesitantly, letting the quilt drop to the floor, only to realize he was still fully clothed.
His brow wrinkled. So, a definite no on the sex, which intrigued him even more. He considered himself a good enough flirt and an even better lover, so he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the situation. Seriously, where was he?
Julian made it a point to be quiet as he tiptoed to a mantle laden with pictures. Each photo had the same common denominator: a really freaking hot redhead with wild wavy hair. Her eyes were a strange, misty gray-blue, and her heart-shaped mouth…tantalizing. And yet he’d failed to land her?
He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would help the memories grow clearer. He’d gotten way too drunk last night, but it’d been a rough day and the bartender, Bryan, wasn’t as tough as the other guys. Then he remembered the girl and her sneer. But most of all? He remembered that he couldn’t stand her.
His memory wasn’t great, but he did remember her spoiled-little-rich-girl “you’re just a piece of gum on the bottom of my shoe” attitude. He’d seen that exact sneer countless times before, because when you’re a poor boy playing a rich man’s sport, well, it’s bound to happen.
Amalie was entitled and reminded him of the members at the country club where he and his dad once worked. They were condescending and rude, thinking their money made them better, that Julian and his dad were nothing more than servants. Like the rest, this girl didn’t know anything about him or what he’d been through in what felt like a lot longer than his thirty years. His life had three parts: BT, Before Tennis; DT, During Tennis; and AT, After Tennis. The AT years all seemed to run together in an endless path of nothing.
Painting the Lines: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Ace of Hearts Book 1) Page 2