Amalie rolled her eyes. Fine, they were more than decent. As were his sculpted thighs. As much as she hated to admit it, her initial assessment from the bar was correct. He was…hot. The man had once been—and maybe would be again—a machine, in possession of a body built for vigorous activities.
She swallowed hard, shoving thoughts about Julian's body to the darkest depths of her obviously desperate mind, but the noise coming from him drew her attention—the grunting when hitting a shot hard, the cussing when it didn’t land where he wanted.
A tingle traced up her spine and her mouth fell open on a breathless sigh that was as mind-boggling as it was annoying. She was supposed to be throttling him, not ogling him.
Any response Julian had drawn from her quickly faded when she noticed his intensity increasing at a stunning pace, as if he were being chased by some inner demon. He hit shot after shot without pause, serve after serve. His arm had to feel like it was about to fall off. Really, what was the purpose of this? Why was he working himself so hard?
Amalie’s heart raced as she watched him run himself down, his grunts becoming more ragged with each slam. Her hand went to her necklace as she remembered her initial intention to give him a piece of her mind. She was still angry, yes, but it looked like Julian was working through something important. She could wait and yell at him another day.
Just as she was about to return to her car, the automatic timer lights went off, and the court and everything around it descended into darkness. Amalie stiffened. Surely she’d been caught, but no. The thwack of Julian’s racket hitting the ball continued to echo alongside the sound of his tennis shoes slapping the asphalt. It was poetry in motion, a symphony of agony. But how long was he going to torture himself? Mesmerized, she stood there partially concealed by shrubbery as he played in the darkness for another ten minutes.
Amalie squinted as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, the nearby parking lot lamp allowing her to just make out Julian’s form. He hit a crappy serve, and then his racket slammed down on the court.
Quickly on its heels was another practically inhuman sound—part animal howl, part anguish—as Julian fell to the ground, head in hands, his entire body shaking.
Amalie’s chest tightened. She was clearly trespassing on something she was not meant to witness. She still disliked Julian, and she was still mad that he stood her up, but she wasn’t completely made of stone.
Not wanting to intrude, Amalie tiptoed back to her car, making sure she closed the door without a sound. She’d text him later about meeting Romina at her gym. After all, tomorrow was another day. But tonight? Tonight was his.
Chapter Five
Julian
Lava ran through Julian’s veins as he sat shaking on the asphalt. Sweat fell in rhythmic splats on the court where he’d collapsed. Breathing felt like a thousand knives stabbing his lungs, but he’d gotten it out of his system, whatever it was. At least for now. Damn it.
Truth was, he’d never stopped playing tennis. It was ingrained far too deeply in him to ever think about quitting. For him to stop playing, whether for fun or money, would be like cutting out part of his brain.
And his father. More than anything else in his life, Julian clung to memories of his father. When he thought of his dad, that salt and pepper beard, the crinkled green eyes that genetics had passed on, it felt like stepping into a puddle of water surrounded by downed power lines. Julian’s downfall was never Oliver Smoke’s fault. Everything had always been and would always be his own damn failing.
“The Smoke, my ass.” Julian panted through ragged breaths as he tried to get up from the court, his hip making noises as he stood.
Welcome to thirty, ladies and gentlemen, where you fall apart overnight.
Hearing his old nickname, the one everyone called him on the pro circuit, as short-lived as it was, sucked. It just reminded him of all the things he didn’t do. Those thoughts were the kinds of things he should be sharing with that redhead. Amalie. The name suited her—intriguing and beautiful but altogether more trouble than it was worth.
Digging into his past was the last thing he wanted to do. His regrets, guilt, the thoughts and feelings that perpetually haunted him, would rise up and bite him in the ass.
That’s why he stood Amalie up. He’d been on his way, dressed as his alter ego, the guy he absolutely loathed: the Clark Kent of pharmaceutical sales. That Julian walked through life like a zombie. That Julian wore khakis and button-ups and sleek black suits, mimicking the rich guys he fucking despised. Talking to Amalie, helping her research, being her novel’s not-so-fictitious subject suddenly felt suffocating. Which was why he’d pulled into the Thornbriar Tennis Center instead of going to the park.
Julian conjured an image of Amalie sitting on the wooden swings overlooking the river, forlorn and lonely. It was almost enough to make him feel guilty.
Almost.
After drying his face with the hem of his sweat-soaked shirt, Julian gathered his stuff. His eyesight in the dark was pretty good thanks to years of practice. He and his dad used to train at the Otter Pines Country Club after hours, and sometimes the lights would go out. The first time it happened, Julian fumbled around the court, tripping over tennis balls and cursing, but his dad had moved with stealthy grace. Within seconds the balls had been gathered in the hopper and handed off to Julian. He’d looked at his dad in utter confusion. It was then that Oliver taught him to rely on the feel of the court, on the sounds of the ball striking the asphalt, on the whoosh of the racket instead of sight. It took months, but eventually Julian could see in the dark as clearly as his father.
“Why do I need to learn to play in the dark?” Julian had asked.
His dad slung an arm around him and said, “If you can play in the dark, you can play anywhere, including the US Open.”
The US Open, once a pipe dream, was closer to becoming a reality. After his stellar run at the University of Georgia with three national championships under his belt, he figured his career in the pros would go similarly. Obviously it didn’t, and that’s where he had to swallow his pride.
He wanted this now. Wanted a different life, not some cracked half-life. He wanted to know what he was capable of without a shady agent, without Nadine and her betrayal, without anyone or anything distracting him from the dream he’d been born to achieve.
After throwing his tennis bag into the trunk of his Altima, a remnant from his college days, Julian climbed in and rested his head against the driver’s seat. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he grabbed his phone from the glove compartment, scrolling to Amalie’s contact info, info she’d put in herself that morning.
His fingers hovered over the screen. Regardless of how he acted, deep down lived a Southern gentleman. His mama would have his hide if he just texted a girl, anyone actually, after standing them up. So he got ready for ball-busting as he pressed the call button.
“I’m assuming you’re calling to grovel?” Amalie’s smug voice filtered through the phone. “Well, I hope you’re on your hands and knees, because I need to make sure you really mean it. Maybe you should FaceTime me.”
This girl was something else. And because it was so damn fun pushing her buttons, Julian ignored thoughts of his mother’s disapproval and played dumb. “Grovel? For what?”
Silence. Shuffling. A puff of breath so loud that Julian had to pull the phone away from his ear.
“Damn, you practicing those fire-breathing skills?” he asked.
“Actually, I am. Maybe if I learn to breathe fire, you’ll take this seriously.”
He fought an eye roll. A root canal would be easier than dealing with Amalie. “You done?”
“With you? Almost. I don’t like having my time wasted, Julian.”
A tiny seed of fear blossomed in the back of his mind. He couldn’t afford to let his own stupid decisions get in the way of things again. God, he hated having to eat crow. His dad used to tell him he must like the way it tastes because he ate it more than anyone he knew.
/>
“Fair enough. Let’s move on to the next phase of whatever this is. You said I’d get a trainer and a coach, right? When does that happen? I’m not about to answer all your questions before you deliver on your end of the deal.”
A pause, then, “Was that an apology, Julian Smoke? If so, it was the worst one I’ve ever heard. You need to try again.”
“Listen—” He started to tell her where she could shove her money, but he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose instead.
Money made the world go round—he knew that better than anyone.
He remembered the day he overheard his dad talking to the head tennis pro, begging him to give Julian lessons. The guy, in front of his rich friends, looked down his nose at Oliver and questioned whether or not he could afford the sport for his son. Even called it a dead dream. Determination had raged in Oliver Smoke’s eyes at that. Julian could still see him, fists clenching and unclenching. Anyone who wanted to make it in the sport started young, took private lessons, and went to an expensive academy.
That was the day Oliver Smoke began training Julian himself, like a pro.
Julian’s blood boiled all over again, recalling how rich people treated his father, how they’d always treated him. That was how Julian lost his money after he went pro—a rich sleazeball taking advantage of him. Now? Now he wanted to go out there and make his dad proud, make his sacrifices and hard work for his son worth it after all these years. Julian would prove that just because he didn’t grow up with money or train in an academy, he was still valid. That all those country club assholes were wrong.
But Julian had already burned his bridges. Sponsors wouldn’t touch him, so it was either sit there and apologize to an entitled rich girl or lose his shot, forever.
Julian finally got the words past his lips. “Fine. Sorry.”
“For?” Amalie’s voice turned patronizing.
Just who exactly did she think she was? She was so caught up in herself that she didn’t even realize what a gift that one “sorry” was.
Julian couldn’t help the words that came pouring from his mouth. He’d spent the majority of his years being pushed around by people just like her. No longer. “Take that apology or you can find someone else. If you even come close to having any of your future characters resemble me in any way, and I’m talking about the hair color to the flecks in their eyes, I’ll sue you for so much that your dad will be calling me Boss.”
An intake of breath and a long pause. “Fine,” she replied. “We’ll pretend you apologized with flowery words and praises and I forgave you, with hesitation, of course. A girl can’t just forgive right away, right? It’ll make you think you can run all over me. And Julian?”
He grunted out a grizzled, “What?”
“You can’t. You may have got one in this time, but you can’t expect me to do all the work here. This is a working relationship, and I want it to be successful for both of us, regardless of our mutual distaste of each other.”
“Loathing, detestation, abhorrence is more like it.”
Laughter filtered through the phone, and Julian couldn’t help but join in. He couldn’t stand her, but their banter was the most fun he’d had in a while.
“Yes, those are more apt descriptors,” Amalie replied. “So, you’re supposed to meet my friend Romina at her gym, Precision Fitness, at seven in the morning. Afterward, she’ll text me, and you and I can meet at the Thornbriar Tennis Club, where I’ll introduce you to your coach.”
Julian pressed his lips together. A coach who wasn’t his dad. A coach who…never mind. Just a coach he had no say in picking. He wanted to bitch but decided to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he blurted out one of the most random things he could think of. “Favorite tennis player?”
Without missing a beat, Amalie answered, “Rafael Nadal.”
“I’m more of a Sampras man myself. So I’m guessing you follow tennis?” His stare roamed over the dark court outside his windshield. He knew why he loved it there so much. It was home.
A scoff, then, “No. I hate tennis.”
Shocked at her answer and a little bit offended, Julian said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Not kidding. Not everyone likes tennis. Jesus, what is with everyone trying to shove this sport down my throat?”
He imagined his earlier comment about her breathing fire, because she sounded one step away from it. What did she look like when she was that pissed off? Was it anything like he saw last night at the bar? Wait, why the hell did he care?
When he spoke, his voice and words were way too smug, but he didn’t give a shit. “Hit a nerve there, did I?”
A hiss. Did she have a cat? He hadn’t seen one when he was there.
“This book is about you, not me,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if I know tennis or not, because what I need to know is you, you whom I’m basing my character on. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to get to know you, you arrogant ass.”
“Actually,” Julian said, his words filled with unrestrained glee, “you do need to know tennis. How else are you going to write a book about a tennis player? You’re going to have to write about matches and make it sound accurate, not like you’re pulling stuff out of your ass.”
He stifled a groan. He did not need to think about her ass.
“I’m a professional, that’s how,” she said.” I know what I’m doing. I don’t have to jump out of an airplane to be capable of writing about it.”
“Well, I’m the pilot on this flight, and I say you have to jump. Jump or it’s a no go.”
Amalie stuttered and stammered, and Julian wished he could see her, mainly so she could see the huge grin overtaking his face.
Finally, she forced her words out in normal order. “You wouldn’t.”
“Actually, I would, and I will. It’s time to get to work and start learning the difference between a volley and a lob, rich girl. I’ll be at your pool house at six-thirty in the morning. That’s where we’ll begin your tennis education. Hope you have a decent pair of tennis shoes.”
Without another word, he hung up. He put his phone on silent to ignore any of her attempts to call him back. Damn. Getting a rise out of Amalie Warner felt good. Way too good. He smiled. “See you tomorrow, princess.”
Chapter Six
Amalie
Amalie floated on a dream-spun cloud, her body wrapped up nice and burrito-esque beneath the sheets. A sudden banging pulled her out of that cozy, toasty world.
“What the…?” She added a few choice curse words under her breath. The sound came again, rattling the front door of the pool house.
“Amalie, open up!” It was Julian’s smooth-as-molasses voice.
More grumbling and cursing erupted from Amalie’s mouth before she opened her eyes. The bedside clock read 6:30. Who got up at this ungodly hour? And most importantly, why? The haze cleared from her sleep-addled mind and she remembered what Julian said before he hung up on her last night. That asshole.
“Am-a-lieeeeeee,” said asshole sing-songed. “Wakey!”
“Hold your damn horses!” she shouted back as she made her way to the living room with her comforter wrapped around her shoulders. The cold January air had filtered through the pool house and settled, despite her kicking the heater up as high as it would go. She opened the door and squinted to find Julian looking like a real-life sportswear ad. “What the hell? I didn’t think you were even a little bit serious.”
His mid-thigh shorts showed off gorgeous muscular legs topped off by a white long sleeve shirt. He looked really good, even more attractive than normal. He also smelled heavenly, like sandalwood and mint mixed with morning dew and his own earthy musk. She would pay to have that scent bottled, for the sheer reaction it stirred in her. But never mind that. He’d woken her up, damn it, and he needed to pay.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Time to get dressed, princess. We’re going for a run.”
Amalie clutched the comforter to her bo
dy, a shiver chasing across her skin. “A run? In this weather?”
Julian nodded with a glint in his eye. “Yes, Amalie, a run. And it’s not even that cold. Once you get going, you’ll warm right up. See, I’m even in shorts.” He kicked out his beautiful legs for inspection as Amalie stared at him, unblinking. He didn’t wait for a response. “Like I said yesterday, if you’re going to write this book, your life has to be as much about tennis as mine. By the time this is over you’ll be eating, sleeping, and breathing tennis.”
Seeing this conversation wasn’t going to be over soon, she grabbed his wrist and dragged him inside rather than standing there freezing their butts off. The warmth of his skin took her by surprise, but she soldiered on.
“I don’t even own workout clothes,” she admitted.
Julian quirked a brow. “Seriously? Nothing?”
She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes as she thought about it. “I have some yoga pants and capris.”
“See, there you go. Go put on a pair. Hurry. I don’t want to be late for Romina.”
“But I’ve never worn those for working out. They’ll get all sweaty and gross.”
Julian chuckled, low and smooth. The sound slid over her like velvet. Her gaze shot up to his face, and of course the image of him laughing was even better than the actual sound. The dimple in his left cheek popped with the movement and the corners of his eyes crinkled.
Ugh. She hated that he was so damn pretty.
“Well, believe it or not,” he said, “there’s this fantastic new invention called a washing machine. You should try it.”
She growled. “Shut up.”
Julian made a shooing motion. “Go! Get dressed.”
What sort of terrible choices had she made where she was now having to run (for fun and not from dinosaurs) and, on top of that, basically immerse herself in a sport she despised? An image of her father floated through her mind, causing her to scowl as she stalked into her bedroom and found her favorite black capris. She mourned the loss of them being solely loungewear while simultaneously detesting the fact that running was now a thing in her life.
Painting the Lines: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Ace of Hearts Book 1) Page 4