His chest ached, and he brought his fist there to massage away the pain. The sound of a microwave beeping reminded him that he needed to get the hell out of this situation.
He did a quick survey. Okay, house, not apartment. It was a really nice house that overlooked an incredibly well-kept tropical paradise of a pool.
“Oh, you’re awake,” a cool voice greeted his back in the same kind of tone that could’ve said, “Oh, thank God he’s dead.”
Slowly, Julian turned to find the girl in the pictures standing in front of him. She was a tiny thing, dressed in skinny jeans that did wonders to accentuate her curves, topped off by a half-tucked white tee shirt and a black blazer with black motorcycle boots. Her red hair was down and wild around her face, and a silver coin necklace hung around her neck. In each hand, she held a plate of bacon with two waffles perfectly layered in butter and syrup.
Julian dragged his gaze from the extended plate of food and back to the smoky blue eyes currently assessing him. God, he already despised that snooty know-it-all expression, so he shot her a bored look and headed for the door.
“Yeah, look, it’s been nice, and I still have no clue how I ended up here, but I don’t know you, so…”
Just as he reached for the door handle, the woman spoke, her icy voice freezing him to the spot.
“Don’t you dare walk out that door, Julian Smoke.”
He tensed at the usage of his full name because hell if he knew hers.
“Yeah, I know who you are,” she said, “and you better believe I didn’t haul your heavy ass all the way into my living room just because I thought you were cute or would be a great lay. Because I didn’t.”
The fire in those words burned enough to make Julian turn around. He hated to admit it, but he was impressed; that fiery attitude was a huge turn-on.
But it didn’t change the fact that there was just something about this girl that rubbed him the wrong way. He knew it last night, and he knew it this morning.
Julian crossed his arms over his chest, which was now a sad shadow of what it once was, much like his entire life. He raised an eyebrow and said, “Fine. Then who the hell are you, and why did you bring me here?” He thought for a minute and then added, “And where am I?”
The redhead placed both plates on an immaculate wooden coffee table with books stacked at even angles. She rolled her shoulders as she stood back up, her pretty face scrunched in obvious disdain. He wanted to tell her the feeling was mutual, but then she placed her hands on her curvy hips, cocking out one foot as she said in a no-nonsense tone, “I’m Amalie Warner. No need to worry, you’re perfectly safe. You’re in my home. I live in the pool house on my father’s estate.”
Julian let loose a mirthless laugh, followed by a sardonic twist of his lips. “Pool house? This is a freaking pool house?” He took in the ornate fixtures and open spaces of the whitewashed room. He was no stranger to luxury, especially at the height of his career, brief as it was, but this was profuse.
Amalie clicked her tongue. “You’re here because, despite the fact that I find you utterly ridiculous—”
Julian bowed, his eyes fluttering as he said, “Why, thank you. The feeling is one hundred percent mutual.”
She didn’t even flinch. She merely shrugged. “You’re welcome. Anyway, last night you said you wanted to qualify for the US Open.”
Julian’s world tilted, and he found himself moving away from Amalie and taking a heavy seat on the couch.
“I said that?” The words were like cotton in his mouth.
Amalie sat next to him, pushing a glass of orange juice into his hand, acting strangely civil. She’d probably poisoned the OJ.
Seeing him eye it, Amalie scoffed. “It’s not spiked or anything. Drink it.”
Julian lifted a brow. “And isn’t that exactly what someone who is poisoning someone would say?”
An unimpressed look settled on Amalie’s face. “Wow, okay. Anyway, you did say you wanted to qualify for the Open, whether you recall it or not.” She took a breath that looked like it pained her and then said, “Look, I did some research on you last night—”
“You what?” Julian, totally thrown off his game, drank the poisonous orange juice because damn if that statement didn’t make his throat constrict.
Amalie rolled her stormy eyes. “It’s called the internet. But I’m guessing there’s something you don’t want me to find, since you’re drinking my poison juice.”
The glass froze halfway to his mouth, and he skewered her with a glare. “Guess you’ll have to get daddy to bail you out of this if it’s really poisoned.”
Her hands clenched and unclenched at her side, nostrils flaring. Her voice went tight when she finally spoke. “Look, I’m a writer, and you could say we’ve had similar lots in life.” Julian looked around the pool mansion and snorted, but the woman, God bless her, kept right on talking. “I need a bestseller, or I’m done for. You need to qualify for the US Open or…” Her brow furrowed as if trying to think of the right thing to say. “Or you go on being the drunken mess you are. Here’s where we can help each other out.”
She leaned closer to Julian, close enough that he caught a whiff of her vanilla perfume. “I’ll bankroll everything,” she continued. “A physical trainer, a coach, your hotels, your entry fees to the tournaments, your equipment, your gas, everything.”
Now she had Julian’s complete attention, poisoned orange juice be damned.
Money was one of the many things that kept him from returning to the game he loved. There was a reason tennis was called a rich man’s sport, and he didn’t make enough selling pharmaceuticals to pay for all it entailed. He could make enough, if he actually enjoyed his job. At least he had enough vacation and sick time to take off for training and matches. If he really wanted this, this was his shot, something his dad would’ve told him to jump on immediately.
At the thought of his father, the ache in his chest grew. It had been nine years, but the man’s death still felt fresh, like it happened yesterday.
“How are you going to pay for all of that?” he asked, desperately trying to banish memories of his father. “Especially since you live with your parents?”
Amalie flinched at his words, and for the briefest moment, he saw a chink in her armor.
Julian had the gift of knowing exactly where to aim for people’s weaknesses—both on and off the court. He should’ve felt bad, but he didn’t. A few more memories from the night before had resurfaced in his mind, and she’d hit him where it hurt, too.
He watched as Amalie smoothed a hand over her denim-clad thighs and then quickly cleared her throat, her tone devoid of emotion. “My father is Andrew Warner, perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
Julian jerked his head back in shock before he could get a grip on his carefully constructed, emotionless facade. Suddenly everything clicked into place. Spoiled little rich girl had been a more than accurate assessment, and to be honest, the realization of who Amalie was made him dislike her even more.
He glanced around, choking down a disbelieving laugh. He was sitting in Andrew Warner’s pool house being a prick to his out-of-touch-with-reality daughter. Amalie’s dad was a billionaire, making his money from the worldwide Warner luxury hotel chain. Amalie’s older sister, Simone, frequently graced the cover of the society pages since Atlanta was enamored with her, their most famous heiress and claim to fame. Julian’s mom followed the family like a fangirl, but he didn’t recall much mention of Amalie at all. Hell, he didn’t even know that Andrew Warner had another kid besides Simone.
Careful to wipe away his shocked expression, he rested his elbows on his knees. “All right, rich girl. I’ll play, but first tell me what you need me for.”
Amalie’s eyes sparkled with a hint of excitement. “I write fiction, and I want you to be the main character in my next book.”
“You want to write about me?” He almost felt flattered. Almost. But something told him Amalie Warner wasn’t the flattering type.
“Well, you but not really you. It’s fiction, so it’s kind of going to be based around you, about a loser who’s down and out—”
“What?”
“I mean, a guy who’s…well, a guy who’s going to try for the unthinkable.”
“Wow, your belief in me is overwhelming. Really. It’s enough to bring me to my knees.” Julian clutched his chest like he was actually overwhelmed by her words. What the girl didn’t know was that he’d pretty much do anything short of becoming a gigolo to have another shot at his dream. Despite that, he couldn’t help the impending word vomit that trailed out of his mouth. “Why don’t you just get one of your father’s tennis buddies to help you? I don’t see why you need me specifically?”
Amalie brought a slim, pale finger to her necklace, an absent look in her eyes. “My father’s tennis buddies don’t have the underdog vibe I need. You do. Besides, I feel like your success will equal my success.”
“Meaning?”
“You had a gazillion fans and most of them still love you and still talk about how they wish you hadn’t quit the game. They’d love to see your comeback. I can totally see it now.” Her hands stretched above her in an imaginary line, “Based on the comeback journey of Julian Smoke. It would sell because you already have that built-in fan base.”
“Will your writing make it sell?”
“Since I’m writing about a real person, yes, it will. That’s where I do my best work.” Her voice was smug, her head held proudly.
Julian rubbed his chin. “So you’re thinking you’ll get the bestseller you need? And you can guarantee that you’ll be able to fund my run for the US Open?”
Amalie responded with a sharp nod.
He shouldn’t trust her. He knew that. Her kind of people—people with more money than God—repulsed him. For them, money could buy anything. Even other people. And there he was, on the brink of being bought.
Julian stared at Amalie. Her eyes were crystals, as impossible to look away from as two glaciers. Damn. He was probably going to regret this, but he extended his hand anyway. “I’m in,” he said. “But I still don’t like you.”
Amalie gave a wry smile that convinced him she was used to getting her way, then she wrapped her tiny fingers around his larger ones in a surprisingly firm shake. “The feeling’s mutual.”
Chapter Four
Amalie
“Hell no. There, is that a better response?” Romina bit out, venom drenching every word.
Amalie sipped her sweet tea. “You do realize you owe me since you stood me up at the bar? This is kind of your fault after all.”
Romina scowled as she tossed her glossy, black hair over her shoulder. “Amalie, that was one night, and you’re asking me to do this for…”
“Oh, you know, seven months,” Amalie replied with a pretty-please smile.
“He’s an ass. I’ve heard that from so many people. He’d be a nightmare to train.” Romina shuddered at the thought.
“I know he’s…unpleasant.”
Romina’s dark eyes focused their bullshit-detecting stare on Amalie. They’d been friends long enough to see through each other’s lies. It’d been love at first sight when they randomly picked each other as project partners back in their Agnes Scott College days.
Amalie winced. “Fine. I hate his guts. He’s an arrogant jerk who thinks he’s God’s gift to humanity thanks to all these people online who think he’s the sexiest guy walking this earth. And apparently, from what I heard from Bryan the bartender, so do the women at the bar.”
Romina grinned around a bite of pizza. “Now that’s more like it.”
“But think—you could punish each asinine comment with an extra push-up or mile. Or if you really want to be mean, make him run suicides for two whole minutes.”
Amalie knew she was being evil, especially since she was depending on Julian for her success. It was a foreign feeling and one she didn’t particularly like, especially given that she didn’t know a lot about him—just that he’d made it to the pros and things had bottomed out pretty quickly. But at this point, she was up for anything that could get her away from her father and all things Warner Hotels. Simply speaking, Julian was her ticket out of hell. But if they were going to give this a shot, Amalie wanted nothing but the best on their team, and Romina Arroyo was the best fitness trainer in Georgia.
“My dad’s paying for everything,” Amalie added. “You’ll be getting paid as if you’re training a pro tennis player.”
Romina’s eyes went round. Amalie had eavesdropped on her father’s “heiress in training” lessons with Simone more times than she cared to count. One of the most important lessons was how to broker a deal that couldn’t be refused.
Romina blew out a breath. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Even though Amalie was relieved, a familiar worry slithered into her mind.
Romina stretched one hand across the table, the other still holding a breadstick. “Hey. Don’t go there. Accepting this job is about me liking the idea of sticking it to that asshole dad of yours, but it’s also about being a good friend and helping you catch that dream you’ve been chasing. Okay? So wipe that look off your face. I’d still be your best friend even if your last name wasn’t Warner.”
Amalie’s eyes darted around the tiny restaurant, to her plate, everywhere but to Ro. Romina had a talent for slicing right to the heart of a matter, and sometimes it made Amalie squirm because, well, she wasn’t used to talking about her feelings. But like it or not, Ro had read her plainly. Too many people saw Andrew Warner’s money when they looked at Amalie, instead of seeing her for the longing-to-be-independent woman that she was. It had poisoned her with enough doubt that she’d just questioned her best friend’s motives.
“Warner, look at me, damn it,” Romina growled, putting down her breadstick.
Amalie met her friend’s stare. “Must be serious if you’re laying down the carbs.”
Ro leaned forward. “It is. Now say it. Say that I’m your best friend no matter what, and that who your daddy is don’t matter one bit to me.”
Amalie sighed. Ro would sit and hold her hand in a death grip while giving her an equally unsettling stare until Amalie did as asked. “You’re my best friend no matter what, and you don’t care that my father is Andrew Warner.”
Apparently satisfied, Romina sat back, releasing Amalie’s hand from her numbing grip.
Eager to avoid discussing any more of her hang-ups, Amalie asked Romina one question that the internet couldn’t answer. “Any idea why Julian quit? I read that he was amazing. Brilliant. Until he…wasn’t.”
Romina quirked an eyebrow. “I’m not sure but, whatever it is, maybe it’ll help you write something like Stella requested. Secrets always add interest.”
Amalie leaned back in her chair, mulling Ro’s words. “You might be right.”
“I’m always right, my lovely.” Romina winked before scanning Amalie’s plate. “You plan on eating the rest of that?” She motioned to a half slice of greasy pepperoni goodness.
Amalie pushed the red plate over to Romina and sighed. “Enjoy. I need to get home and outline questions for my introductory interview with Satan. I’m supposed to meet him at Morgan Falls Overlook tonight.”
With a mouth full of pizza, Romina deadpanned. “What an interesting event that will be.” Amalie wrinkled her nose, but Romina continued. “Tell His Surliness to be at my gym at eight a.m. Sharp. Each minute he’s late, I’m tacking on another mile. He seems like the type who doesn’t care about anyone’s time.”
Amalie stood from their table, pulling on a jacket before throwing her black Prada bag (a guilt gift from her mother, who she hadn’t seen in eight years) over her shoulder. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
Seven o’clock turned into seven-ten, which turned into seven-twenty, and finally seven-thirty, and yeah, Amalie was pissed. Julian promised he’d meet her, but he was nowhere in sight.
Amalie closed the book she’d been reading and released a pent
-up sigh. She scanned the park beneath the cotton candy sky, bouncing from the lake to an old man walking his chihuahua to a harried dad chasing after his little girl. Getting stood up seemed to be Amalie’s new normal, and she wasn’t having it at all. After fishing her cell out of her purse, she gathered her book and once-warm coffee and dialed Ro.
Romina picked up on the first ring. “Let me guess, the prick didn’t show?”
Amalie slid into her car, turning the heater on blast. “You would be correct. Any idea where a former tennis player might hide out? Bars? Strip clubs? Country clubs?” Amalie asked as she pulled out of the slowly emptying parking lot.
“How about a tennis court, love? Drive around. Check out the nearest courts. I’d bet my gym you’ll find him there.”
Amalie smacked her forehead. “Well, I’m an idiot. I’ll ride by the courts I know and then pull over so I can look up others. You’re a genius, Ro.”
“I know, I know. Now go find your victim, er, um, subject.” And then the line went dead.
Amalie stuck her tongue out at her phone and muttered as she drove around looking for the nearest tennis courts. “Directions, thou art my enemy,” she groused, but then slowed when she noticed the bright lights of a tennis court and the sign for the Thornbriar Tennis Center. A familiar bear of a man was on the court, hitting ball after ball to no one. Amalie pulled her car into a parking spot hidden by shrubbery, turned off the engine, and crept out for a better view.
Amalie stood there, huddled in her jacket and boots, while Julian danced around the court in shorts and a tank. A glowing sheen covered his arms, accentuating every curve and cut. He also wore black shorts that showed off pretty decent calf muscles.
Painting the Lines: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Ace of Hearts Book 1) Page 3