“You only like that scene because of the sex.”
Oh, if only she knew. If only she knew what was going on in his head, how he was straining against his boxer briefs. “I like everything because of the sex, but really, that scene was perfect. I felt their emotions, and it was killing me that they weren’t together. When they finally hooked up, I might’ve shouted. So yeah, winning feels like writing something along those lines.”
“Aww. I didn’t know you loved it like that. But, flattering as that is, I imagine winning feels a little more intense than simply writing the perfect scene.”
“Well, what about when you found out Breaking the Fall was on the bestseller’s list? You were overjoyed, your heart probably felt like it was about to flutter out of your rib cage, your breathing staggered, tears coming to your eyes, all because you’d worked so hard for so long and it was overwhelming that you finally got what you wanted.”
There was silence on the other end of the line, and Julian thought maybe he’d said too much. She wanted an answer, and that was the best he could give.
“Julian,” her voice was soft. “That was beautiful and perfect, and I was trying to write down every single word that came out of your mouth. Maybe you should be the writer.”
He brushed it off, but inside he glowed under her praise. And because he was done talking about all of this and had more pressing questions, he decided to deflect and get to the heart of the matter.
His voice dropped an octave, the sound hoarse and unfamiliar to his own ears. “So, nightshirt, huh? You don’t sleep with your shirt off?”
Her familiar giggle came through the phone. “Hmmm…depends on what mood I’m in.”
“What kind of mood you in tonight?” God, she was killing him.
“This wine is making me feel pretty hot. As a matter of fact…”
He heard rustling on her end, and he swore it sounded like material against skin. “I just had to take my shirt off because I felt flushed,” she said. “Hey, I imagine a guy like you sleeps with nothing on.”
He brought his fist to his mouth. She was sitting there talking to him in nothing more than her underwear and acted like it was no big deal. “How did you know?”
“Just a feeling.”
“I can give you some feelings.” There was no mistaking the pain in his voice as he throbbed in misery.
“Well, how would you do that?” There was a sexy, teasing lilt to her voice now, more rustling on her end of the line, and he imagined her getting beneath the sheets on the couch. Where were her hands? What were they doing?
Oh shit. His brain short-circuited for a minute since the blood was flowing elsewhere.
“Hey, Julian,” she said, but he hadn’t taken the phone away from his ear.
“Yes,” he answered, trying to stifle the desperate pant of his breathing, but he knew she’d already noticed it.
A small laugh trilled from her throat, a sound that was low and sexy, completely devilish and utterly tantalizing. “Enjoy your night. Think of me,” she finally said, then the line went silent.
With a groan, Julian dropped the phone on his bed and scrubbed his fingers through his hair before sliding a hand beneath the sheets and giving in to her command.
Chapter Sixteen
Julian
The day before sectionals, Paul pulled up the draw. This tournament was on a different level than the Jekyll tournament. Sectionals would be filled with guys itching to play the US Open. This was real competition, and one particular name garnered Julian’s interest.
Taylor Pratt was a nineteen-year-old American player who had just turned pro in February and had already played a couple of futures events and one pro level, where he won two rounds at the Memphis Open. In other words, the kid was a force to be reckoned with. According to the draw, the only way Julian would play him was if they both made it to the finals—a more realistic situation for Taylor than for himself.
Paul rubbed his hands together and said, “Hey man, this is great. This kid’s legit. If you get to play him, we can get a better idea of where you’re at.”
On the first day of the three-day tournament, Julian, Amalie, and Paul agreed to meet at the Stone Mountain Tennis Center, which was thirty minutes from Julian’s apartment in Dunwoody, just outside Atlanta. That morning, when Julian jogged down to his car, he noticed a tiny white box on his seat, a note on top with his name scrawled in his mom’s familiar handwriting. Even though his fingers itched to open the box first, he went for the envelope. A messy add-on at the top read, “What have I told you about locking your car doors?” It made him grin, and then he started reading.
Julian,
There aren’t enough words to tell you just how proud I am of you. What you’ll find in the box is something you’ll recognize instantly. I hope it brings you luck and makes you feel like your Daddy is right there with you the entire time.
I love you,
Mama
With shaky hands, he opened the box. Staring back at him was his father’s gold tennis racket necklace. It was an ugly, gaudy thing, but Oliver Smoke wore it every single day and swore it brought him luck on the court.
Julian’s fist clenched over the metal, feeling the cool bite of it in his palm. This was the best gift anyone could have given him.
He didn’t waste any time securing it around his neck, admiring it in the rearview mirror. With a quick glance at the time, he backed out of his apartment complex, dialing his mom.
“Hey, honey,” his mom’s Southern accent drawled.
“Hey, Mom. I got the necklace. Thank you.”
He could hear the smile in her voice. “You’re welcome. I figured you’d like it, like having a piece of your family there with you on the court.”
His hand traced over the intricate design, the other hand on the wheel. “I love it.” There was a brief pause. “So, you coming to the tournament?”
His mom sighed. “You know, I don’t think I will. I thought I could break the superstition, but I can’t, not yet anyway. That’s part of the reason I wanted you to have the necklace. That way you’d have your father and me there with you in spirit.”
He wasn’t surprised. The superstition his mom concocted while he was in college was something she clung to tightly—she absolutely refused to watch his matches live, instead only watching the recorded versions.
“That’s cool. I figured you wouldn’t, and the necklace more than makes up for it. But listen, if I make it to New York, you’ll have to come then.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, honey. But I think we need to change the wording there. I think you should be saying when you make it to New York, not if.”
“Mom, New York is a pretty fucking big if.”
“Julian! You watch your mouth. I hope you don’t talk like this around Amalie. Speaking of Amalie—”
Damn, she probably already had their wedding china picked out.
“Pulling into the parking lot now, Mom. Gotta go. Love you!”
“I see what you’re doing, but I love you too! Good luck!”
When he got out of his car, the first thing he noticed was the smell of asphalt burning. It was July in Georgia, which meant it was hotter than seven hells. The second thing he noticed was Amalie standing outside of her car, nervously adjusting the strap of her writing bag.
God, she was beautiful, waiting there with the morning sun reflecting in her hair like fire dancing in the breeze.
A stronger wind blew the strap of her white tank off her shoulder, making her laugh as she swiped a hand along her sun-pinked skin to correct the fallen fabric. Julian’s breath caught. Seeing her in person after a month was almost too much, but seeing her there without some other guy on her arm was even better. He’d worried that during their time apart someone else would catch her eye, someone who actually deserved her. Things had kind of died since their racy phone call…the one that he replayed over and over in his mind. He still couldn’t shake that low, throaty tone her voice had taken, the image he’d had in his
mind. He’d wanted more of those phone calls. Hell, he’d wanted all of that in person, but Amalie told him she didn’t want to be a distraction, so she’d taken a step back.
In an attempt at failed self-preservation, he zeroed in on her downturned mouth, her nose scrunched as she studied her phone. She looked up at the sound of his feet on the pavement. Was it his imagination or did her eyes light up when she saw him? She shoved her phone in her back pocket and rushed over to him, her arms wrapping around his neck. He picked her up, feeling her body press against his. He breathed in her heady perfume, his nose brushing her skin, and all he could think about was pressing his lips to her pulse.
“Miss me, Stardust?” He pulled away, admiring those eyes, those lips, everything about her overwhelming his senses as his hands tightened on her waist, relief flooding his words.
“Of course I did.” She grinned back, that very relief he felt mirrored in her own stare. She pushed his hair from his eyes, her fingertips brushing his skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “And I know the feeling’s mutual, right?” She stood up on her tiptoes in an attempt to better see him eye to eye, and all he could think about was kissing her.
“You know it is. I thought about you every day…and every night.” He couldn’t help himself.
Her cheeks flushed, painting a crimson sky beneath her freckles. She plopped back down on her feet, and even though he hated to do it, Julian released her from his embrace as she tucked her hair behind her ears. A small smile played across her lips.
Deciding to help her out and not be a complete dick, he changed the subject, although all he wanted was for her to tell him the same—that she thought about that night on the phone way more than she should. “Hey, when I walked up, you looked upset. Everything good?” he asked.
She sucked in a breath before meeting his eyes. “I’m going to tell you, but you have to promise that it won’t affect your game and you won’t freak out.”
Dread trickled through him as he tried to appear chill and unaffected even as his mind ran through all the things that could mess with his game, and that list was long.
“Helloooo? Yoohoo!” Amalie called as she waved a hand in front of his face, bringing him back from his worst-case-scenario daydreams. When she seemed content with his attention level, she said slowly, her eyes wide, “Julian, do you promise?”
“Yeah, fine, I promise. What is it?” he snapped, a little sharper than intended. His mind was about to jump off the deep end, and the sooner he could reel it back in, the better.
Amalie didn’t even flinch or cock an eyebrow—that’s how he knew whatever she had to tell him was bad. She always gave him hell and kept him in line.
She unleashed a shaky exhale. “So, Paul can’t come this weekend.” She winced, one eye open as she waited for Julian’s reaction.
Of all the worst-case scenarios that flitted through his mind, that was definitely not one of them. Paul was his coach, his rock, his guy who was always there. No, this was worse than he could’ve imagined.
He glanced around the parking lot without really seeing anything.
Amalie reached a tentative hand out toward him, her words soft. “Hey, you okay?”
He gave her a curt nod as he leaned back against her car, away from her, away from her comfort. “Why can’t he be here?” he grated out, his voice all hard edges as he fought against the free-for-all now raging in his brain.
Amalie took a step back, her hand dropping to the top of her writing bag. “He’s sick,” she said simply, as if that explained everything when in reality it explained nothing at all.
Julian’s eyes flicked up to her face, looking for signs of how bad it was, worry instantly slamming into him.
His words were crowded, falling out on top of each other as he straightened. “How sick is he? Are we talking a cold or terminal?” Because in his mind there was no in-between.
His eyes must’ve given away his anxiety, because Amalie stepped forward again, determination etched across her face as she placed a gentle hand on his arm. Her touch steadied him instantly, anchoring his wild mind. She was the only person in the world able to do that.
“He’s got pneumonia, and you know the older you are when you get it, the rougher it is. Luckily, Paul caught it early and he’ll be fine. His doctor wanted him to rest for a few days. He was going to come here anyway, but I talked him out of it.” A tiny laugh slipped out of her, and it was the cutest thing he’d ever heard.
“But he’ll be okay, right?” he repeated dumbly. Somewhere along the way the unpredictable bastard had become more than just a coach to him.
Amalie nodded, her entire countenance completely changed now that she didn’t have the burden of Paul’s news on her shoulders. “He’ll be fine, Julian. I promise.” Then she changed gears, turning into a little Paul Jr., her voice gruff like his, her fake Brooklyn accent atrocious as she said, “Now let’s go kick some ass, son.” She bounced on her toes as she raised a fist for him to bump.
Julian was surprised to hear laughter filtering out of his own mouth as they fist-bumped. Amalie’s happiness was contagious, a powerful drug that chased away the worries that plagued him.
His eyes swept over her, loving the light in her eyes, the curve of her mouth, and the happy flush of her cheeks. She was so free, so different from the uptight girl he first met. This version of her was dangerous in the best possible way.
Julian was riding a high on Sunday morning, his confidence soaring after two days of strong play. He’d won his first match Friday evening and the same with two matches Saturday. He easily dismantled his semifinals opponent and was all set for the finals, where he’d play none other than Taylor Pratt, the kid from California he and Paul had talked about. Honestly, he was more surprised by how well he was holding up physically; it looked like Romina’s torture and training had paid off. He’d hardly felt winded, and he’d played more these past three days than he had in years. If he won this tournament, he’d earn a spot in the qualifying tournament, which was one step away from the main draw of the US Open. It was wild to even think he was so damn close.
As Julian and Taylor did a brief warm-up, Julian tried to take stock of what he had going for him. His forehand and serve were working really well, but he knew things would be different with Taylor. The kid had fire in his eyes, in his stance, as he called heads for first serve—a ballsy move since most guys liked their opponent to serve first. The kid wanted it. Badly. And Julian was the final obstacle in his way.
What the kid didn’t know was that the feeling was mutual.
As Julian walked back to the baseline, he pulled out the cold chain that settled against his heart, brought it to his lips and kissed it, holding it up to the sky, and then pushed it back beneath his shirt. He could almost feel his father there with him on the court. He tightened his blue headband, and he was ready. Better yet, he was hungry.
Julian quickly realized this kid was a beast. He played left-handed, and that really tested Julian’s backhand. Not only that, but Pratt played with a lot of spin and splice, making it difficult for Julian to find a comfortable rhythm, forcing him to play a variety of different shots, and keeping him continuously on his toes.
With each bounce of the ball, Julian sensed his mental game being torn to shreds. He was letting this kid get to him, ruffle him, and it was hard to come back from that. The other players challenged him physically but not mentally. Taylor Pratt was dangerous because he did both. As a matter of fact, he did it so well, he beat Julian in the first set.
Pratt called for a restroom break when the first set ended. The chair umpire asked Julian if he needed to go, too. For a minute Julian zoned out, thinking to himself, Damn it all if I’ve got to piss, but I don’t deserve it after that. I should just piss my pants since I’m playing like a toddler.
“Julian? Do you need to use the restroom?” the chair asked again, breaking through Julian’s self-loathing. He almost said no, just to punish himself, but instead, he nodded wordlessly.
>
He’d barely made it off-court before Amalie fell in step with him, the sound of her sandals echoing against the asphalt. He didn’t meet her gaze because he didn’t want to see the pity that was probably written all over her pretty face. That last set was embarrassing, and he hated that she had seen him play like that.
Aggravated, he bit out, “I don’t need to talk to anyone right now. I just need to think.”
Amalie was undeterred and continued walking with him, her shoulder brushing his. “But Paul has a message for you.”
That got his attention, his head whipping around. To his surprise, there was no pity in her expression. Oh no, not at all. Her jaw was set, her lips pressed together, determination radiating from her.
“What?” he asked, not sure if he’d heard her correctly.
“Paul has a message for you,” she repeated, her voice tight.
Julian sighed, feeling his shoulders hunch with the effort. He turned to look at the restroom door. “Fine. Just give me a minute.” And without waiting for a response, he disappeared into the men’s room. He headed into the stall and locked it, desperate for the privacy, the quiet.
He clenched his fist and glared at the wall, the urge to punch it strong. He wished he had his racket with him. He needed to hit something, to scream, hell, anything to get rid of the shitty feeling running through him. Losing wasn’t the end of the world, he knew that, but losing here? That meant the end of the road, and he wasn’t ready to walk away yet.
The sound of the restroom door flying open and slamming into the wall scared the shit out of him. He stopped pissing for a minute, waiting to see if he was about to get murdered.
“Hey, Taylor, is that you man?” Julian called out.
“I’m washing my hands. It’s a redhead. I think she’s here to see you.”
Silence, followed by the sound of Taylor grabbing paper towels and the door shutting again.
Painting the Lines: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Ace of Hearts Book 1) Page 15