Painting the Lines: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Ace of Hearts Book 1)

by Ashley R. King

  His mom engulfed him in a tight, floral-scented hug and then kissed him on the cheek. Then she gave him that mom-look, right before she turned her attention on Amalie. Julian stiffened, unsure what to expect when his two worlds collided.

  His mom’s voice grew more excited. “Now who is this? Your new special someone?” She didn’t wait for Julian’s response as she wrapped her arms around Amalie.

  “No. No, no, absolutely not, no.” Amalie made an awkward noise, her face red enough to match her hair. “Nope. Never in a million years. Wrong person. No. I’m just the writer.”

  “Damn, I think we get it,” Julian cut in, his pride taking a hit. She made it sound like being his girl would be the worst thing in the world, and while he knew they weren’t close, he hadn’t expected that response.

  His mom swatted his arm. “Julian Alec Smoke! Language!”

  He swore he heard Amalie snicker. Before he could apologize, Paul interjected, “Charlotte, this is Amalie Warner. She’s part of the team.”

  “And obviously not Julian’s special someone. Although, son, I’d like to see you have at least one serious relationship. That Nadine really did a number on you, and I worry you won’t ever get your heart straightened out.”

  “Shit, Mom. Way to put my business out there.” He hadn’t mentioned Nadine to Amalie, and as far as he was concerned, Nadine was dead to him the moment she screwed someone else while engaged to him. She’d broken his heart, and yes, he hadn’t been the same since, and his trust level definitely could use some help, but Amalie didn’t need to know this.

  Amalie placed a hand on his forearm, her touch almost distracting. “I know that name. Who’s Nadine?”

  Julian stammered, but his mom, the steamroller, kept talking. “Nadine Merriweather was Julian’s fiancée. When did y’all get engaged? Twenty-one?”

  “Fiancée? Twenty-one?” Amalie faced him, arms crossed beneath her breasts. “Well, well, well, that’s a little young, ain’t it?”

  Julian glared at her, pouring a heaping dose of sarcasm into his voice as he said, “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

  Hating that she now knew this little piece of his past, this tiny bit of knowledge that could hurt him whenever she wanted, Julian sighed and turned to Paul. “Not that I don’t like seeing my mom, but is there a reason you called her here?”

  Adjusting his hat, Paul cleared his throat, then said, “Charlotte, can you excuse us for a moment? Coach stuff, you know, and then we’ll be right back over.”

  Julian gave his mom and Amalie what probably looked like a grimace, because let’s be real, getting a colonoscopy would be more pleasant than this current reunion. He loved his mom, and she’d always supported him no matter what. But he knew they would probably talk about tennis, which would lead to talking about his dad and that was something he wasn’t ready for.

  Paul led Julian to the gate, his gruff voice hushed. “I know you’re not happy about this—‍”

  “I’m pissed is what I am,” Julian growled as he ran a hand through his damp hair. “You thought this was a good idea? I don’t see what my mom has to do with anything.”

  Paul took a step forward, pointing at Julian, his face completely stone. “Damn right I thought this was a good idea, kid. You won’t open up to me or to Amalie, and it’s hard to coach someone who’s locked up tighter than Fort Knox. You’re battling some demons in there, and I know it all stems from your dad, and I’m willing to bet you pushed your mom away afterward.”

  Julian’s blood turned to ice. His life was none of Paul’s damn business.

  “Guilt’s a funny thing that way,” Paul continued. “I want you to work things out with your mom, and I’m telling you it will transmit to the court. Now, it’s rude to keep the ladies waiting. Just trust me. That’s all I ask. But if you don’t trust my coaching methods, then you need to say it now.” Paul crossed his arms over his barrel chest, the sleeves of his polo tightening against his biceps.

  Julian hadn’t remembered how exposing tennis could be. He was sure Amalie had to go through the same thing as a writer. Tackling internal shit was part of conquering the obstacles standing in the way of any dream. His dad had taught him that, and once upon a time, it hadn’t been a big deal. But now? Now he thought about telling Paul to forget everything. US Open-level dreams were one thing for a kid who thought he could take on the world and an entirely different beast for a thirty-year-old failure.

  Then again, he’d felt good out there on the court. Alive, for the first time in months. No, years. Holding that racket in his hand, his feet hitting the asphalt, it felt right. He hadn’t completely sucked out there with the UGA tennis players today, although his bones were screaming that he wasn’t nineteen anymore.

  Finding his voice, Julian said, “I’ve never talked about it, but I’ll try. Will that work?”

  Paul nodded, clapping him on the back in a way that, once again, awakened memories of his father. “That’ll work, son,” Paul said.

  Julian avoided Amalie’s scrutiny as they returned to the women. His mom’s expression, however, softened. Her voice lowered as she bent her head closer to his. “I was afraid to get my hopes up when Paul called. Now I know it’s true. You’re playing again. You’re really playing.” Julian could only nod, especially as he caught that hopeful glint in his mom’s eyes. “I’m so glad,” she went on. “Your father would be so proud of you, honey. He would’ve wanted you to keep on playing, you know that, don’t you?”

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  His mom wasn’t saying those things to be hurtful—she meant them to be supportive and loving. It was just that she didn’t fully understand how much his father’s death had affected him, how it was intertwined with tennis and always would be. As a matter of fact, since Oliver died, they hadn’t talked about much besides his job, her retirement, and the weather.

  He felt Amalie’s stare, waiting, wondering. When he looked up, would he see pity in her eyes? Would she figure out what happened, why he quit playing?

  Overwhelmed, Julian squeezed his mom’s hand and tried to smile. “I, uh, I…I forgot something in the locker room. Wait right here for me, okay?”

  Without looking back, he took off. He needed to get away, just for a minute, to collect his thoughts, to steady his breathing, to quiet everything around him. Once he stepped inside the locker room, he took a deep breath, his hands pulling at his hair. He walked down to the last locker, pressing his forehead against it, allowing the coolness to seep into his bones.

  “Julian?” a small voice came from the doorway. Amalie stood there, hands wringing and fidgeting. She moved one foot back out the door, then moved one in, indecision written across her face. “Um, I thought you might want someone to talk to? If I’m wrong, I can… I can just go.” She hooked a thumb behind her, her curly red hair swishing across her pale skin. She was so pretty that sometimes it hurt to look at her, but that didn’t change who she was or what she represented, that she lived in her perfect gilded cage, untouchable and wanting for nothing, a life he would never understand.

  Pushing off the locker, Julian faced her. “Have you figured out that I’m a shitty human being yet?”

  Her brow furrowed, but his words didn’t scare her off. No, this girl was fearless. She took two steps inside the locker room, and then she took a few more, until she was standing toe to toe with him. She smelled like vanilla and sunshine, and this close he could see the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. It was adorable, which was slightly confusing, because how could a woman be so adorable while also being mind-fucking sexy and yet irritating as hell?

  “I don’t know what you mean by that, but I do know you kinda ran off the court like lightning struck you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” She straightened her spine like she was expecting a battle.

  He shook his head. What did she know about being okay? “It’s not any of your concern, but I am. Okay, that is.”

  Amalie propped her hands on her hi
ps, irritation lighting her eyes. “First of all? It is my concern. We’re in this together, Julian. I’m helping you, and you’re helping, well, you’re supposed to be helping me. But are you? No. You and I argue, that’s all we do, and so far, all I have are notes of your training. I don’t even know where you live. I don’t know anything about you except what I learned that night at the bar and what your mom just told me about Nadine.”

  More guilt heaped upon what was already weighing Julian’s shoulders down. He almost slumped beneath the pressure. She was right. He’d done nothing to help her, but he hadn’t wanted to let her in.

  With a sigh, he plopped down on the lacquered wooden bench. “Don’t take it personally. It’s just how I am. I don’t like to share. But I will help you—I promise.”

  Amalie didn’t budge. “Fine. But I’m staying here until you’re okay, because you’re totally lying. And don’t get me wrong, it’s okay to not be okay, but you should have someone around during those times. It usually helps.”

  Julian met her stare. The gesture should’ve thawed his heart, but it didn’t, maybe because his heart had hardened a long time ago. “I appreciate you being here, Amalie, but you can’t understand this. Your life is perfect. You haven’t let your family down like I have. My mom’s a good person. It’s tough for her to be here because she’s one of the only people who knows what I’ve done.”

  She stalked toward him until she hovered over him, a looming little red-haired bundle of barely-tamed fury. “Listen here,” she said. “You don’t know anything about me. I’ve let my family down plenty. Why do you think I’m living in my dad’s pool house with the threat of having to work for his company hanging over my head every damn day? It’s certainly not because it’s fun.”

  Definitely not the response he expected. He took a minute to study the woman before him, her anger-stained cheeks, the glistening eyes, and he saw that maybe his initial assessment was off, but…but she still had both of her parents. She might’ve disappointed them, but not on the scale that he had.

  Amalie’s chest heaved—something he really didn’t need to be staring at—and it looked like she was trying to calm down, but her anger flared again before she could suppress it. She held up a hand as if to silence any response he might have. “You know what? This was all a huge mistake. I can see that we aren’t going to be able to make this work.”

  And just like that, Julian saw his dream turn to dust, again.

  His stomach churned at the thought. Without her dad’s money, Julian had nothing.

  Desperate to keep Amalie from walking out that door, he scrambled to dig his cell phone out of his pocket. “Wait!” Amalie went still, her back to him. “Please,” he added, his voice cracking.

  And that’s what did it. She turned around, her mouth a straight line. “This is your last chance, Smoke. Better make it good.”

  Julian nodded, his eyes on the screen of his cell phone. His heart raced, fighting against his ribs as he opened his photo album. “You better sit for a minute, then.”

  Despite the wariness that spread across her features, Amalie took a seat next to him on the bench, her eyes darting to Julian’s phone. His hands began to shake, but it was this little piece of himself or his dream. This piece…he didn’t need it, did he?

  He flipped through a few pictures and landed on one that had always been one of his favorites. His mom had the original and refused to relinquish it, since it sat in a frame on her nightstand. Even though it still hurt to look at it, it felt good to see his father’s face, felt good to relive that day again.

  Julian handed his phone to Amalie, his voice barely a whisper as he said, “When I was eight years old, my dad took me to the US Open. The Sampras/Agassi final.”

  Unable to help himself, he leaned over and looked at the picture again, too aware when his shoulder brushed hers. He moved away, enough to save him contact, even if he still felt her heat. “That was one of my favorite days.”

  He watched as Amalie studied the photo. There Julian was, grinning with his dad, arms around each other.

  “It was an early birthday gift from my parents,” he continued. It was good to talk about his dad, but at the same time it felt like a knife had slammed into his gut. “I remember being scared about flying.”

  Amalie turned her gaze onto him. “It was worth it, wasn’t it?” she asked, her words calm and sweet.

  The tenderness Julian found in her eyes and voice held him momentarily captive. He blinked, returning his attention to the picture. “To see Sampas play? Absolutely. And when we got to New York I thought I was hot shit, you know? I was just a Georgia boy who loved tennis, but that trip changed everything. I told my dad…” He paused, and Amalie wrapped her fingers around his. He wanted to shake off her touch, but he couldn’t deny that it felt nice, especially with what this next bit would cost him. “I told him that night after the match that I wanted to play in the US Open more than anything. So, you see, this isn’t just about me. I know I’m an arrogant ass, but it’s not about me being the king of the court anymore. I’m a different man now. This is about making up for my mistakes and not only making myself proud but finally making my father proud.”

  His vision grew watery. He used one hand to wipe his eyes, the other not ready to let Amalie go yet.

  “And make him proud you will, Julian.” Her words were hushed, her eyes glassy. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

  He nodded, his throat tight.

  Amalie rested her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him. “If you tell anyone I hugged you, I’ll kill you.”

  Much needed laughter sprung from Julian. “Noted.”

  They sat there for a while, him in her arms, her head on his shoulder, as his dead and unfeeling heart slowly came back to life.

  The next day, after practice, Amalie stopped by Julian’s bench as he packed up his racket. “So, we need a Write Night.”

  Julian stilled. “A what?”

  “A Write Night, a night where we work together on this novel. I’m putting my foot down. It’s happening.”

  Julian rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Fine. When?”

  Amalie perked up like he’d just offered her a million dollars.

  “Really?” Her eyes were bright, and that smile…

  He gave her a chin nod and returned his attention to his tennis bag. “Name the time and place.”

  “Your apartment? In about an hour? I can bring dinner.”

  The first thing he wanted to do was tell her no. He didn’t want her in his space. He was already struggling with having her in his mind all the damn time.

  “Yeah, sounds good,” he said around a hard swallow. “I’ll see you then.” Julian pulled his bag over his shoulder and watched her disappear through the gate with a small wave.

  After rushing home to shower and clean his apartment, Julian got the place looking decent. It was a bachelor pad to its core, with no decorations, just a few pictures of him with his parents. Should he try to find something else to put out? He looked around his living room with its recliner and sofa and large television and shook his head. There wasn’t anything else to put out. Anticipation and excitement moved through his veins, something he hadn’t felt off the tennis court in a long time.

  A knock at the door drew his attention. He didn’t even look through the peephole because he knew without a doubt that it was Amalie. When he opened the door, there she was, all pretty and perfect in those tight yoga pants he loved with a cropped gray sweatshirt that fell off one shoulder, showcasing her creamy skin and a black sports bra. He couldn’t look away.

  “I brought food!” She lifted two large white bags into the air. “Tacos, nachos, and enchiladas. I hope you’re hungry!” She paused, staring into his eyes as her face pinked. “For food, I mean. Hungry for food. Not me. Why would I even say me? Anyway.”

  He hadn’t tried to blink away the carnal thoughts clouding his mind, and Amalie had obviously read them with ease. He couldn’t say he c
ared. He wanted her to know how she made him feel. Still, her rambling was adorable. He had to tease just a little.

  “You look a little flustered.” He held the door open. “Why don’t you come in? I’m definitely hungry.”

  She stepped past him, headed toward his kitchen table, bringing that familiar wave of vanilla, the smell that pretty much lived in his thoughts now.

  He watched her bend over and start arranging things on his kitchen table, her eyes tracking between the food and his apartment. “Nice place,” she said, her voice a little shaky.

  The curve of her ass and a sliver of milky skin at her waist caught his eye. “Yeah. I like it.” Julian swallowed hard and joined her, his voice thick. “A lot.”

  Amalie looked up at him, reading his eyes again, and took a deep breath before turning her attention back to the food. “So, I thought since this is Write Night, we should get started as soon as possible. We have a lot to cover and not a lot of time.”

  “What do you mean not a lot of time? We’ve got all night.” Julian grabbed one of the boxes of nachos she’d set aside. He absolutely meant to brush his chest against her back as he did it, his breath at her neck. If she turned her head just slightly, their lips would almost touch.

  Amalie stiffened, her strangled laugh finally snapping Julian out of his lust-filled haze.

  “Funny, but”—she cleared her throat—“we don’t have all night. We have to get plenty of sleep so we’re rested for our run.”

  Julian should’ve moved away without touching her again, but his body liked to act of its own volition. He dropped the nachos and leaned forward again, his hands blocking her between him and the table. He leaned close and spoke against her ear. “You sure?”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth. She bit her lower lip before she finally spoke. “Could you make it worth my while?” Her voice was a throaty whisper he’d only heard in his dreams.