“Paul says you need to get the ball to the backhand side,” Amalie’s voice echoed through the room.
Julian shook his head, biting back laughter. This girl was too much.
“I’m trying to piss, Stardust,” he admitted, then, “Wait, Paul said what?”
“By all means, finish taking a piss. I’ll just read off these messages as you do.” He could almost imagine her waving her phone around as she said that.
So he did, and she continued. “He said you need to get the ball to his backhand side and take more chances there. Oh, and you need to go more to the body with your serve.”
Julian stepped out of the stall and washed his hands, meeting Amalie’s gaze in the mirror. “How? How’s he even watching this?”
Amalie typed a quick text and got a response almost instantly, her ringtone echoing throughout the bathroom. “He said he’s got it streaming live through a webcam he hooked up.” She scrunched her nose as she re-read the message. “Probably illegal, especially if Paul’s involved.” She gave a little shrug and then tucked her phone into the back pocket of her shorts. “But hey, do what he says, okay? Smoke?”
At the sound of his nickname, he turned and caught her eye. Everything about Amalie in that moment dared him to trifle with her as she stepped closer, placing herself directly in front of him. His fingers itched to feel the satiny fabric of her white tank, to feel her skin.
She reached out a finger and poked him in the chest. “Now’s not the time to play like you’re afraid, do you hear me? You’re better than this, and you’re letting a nineteen-year-old intimidate you. Go back out there and take care of this pubescent punk like I know you can.” To punctuate her words, she grabbed two sticks of Juicy Fruit out of her purse, shoved them into her mouth, and began to punish them just like Paul.
Julian burst out laughing. “Did Paul put you up to this, too?”
“No, he didn’t. This is all me, and it’s what you need to hear. Now get out there and do what you came here to do,” she all but growled, sticking a fist out for him to bump. He stared at it for a minute, his lips still tilted in a smile.
She slung out her hip, aggravation flaring in her eyes. “So help me God, Smoke, if you don’t fist bump me…”
He lifted his hand to his chin pretending to think about it, loving how hot she was when she was mad. She narrowed her eyes at him and then he finally bumped her small fist. Afterward, she gave him a nod and then led the way back to the court. His mind cycled through Paul’s advice, realizing his coach wasn’t wrong.
But it wasn’t Paul’s guidance that made him feel better, stronger, like he actually had a shot. No, it was Amalie who had done that. Hell, she’d followed him to the bathroom just to get him pumped up about the remainder of the match. He liked that, liked having her in his corner.
When he got on the court, Pratt was already there, hopping back and forth, keeping his legs warm. He gave Julian a nod, and then they retreated to the baseline. Just as Pratt was about to serve, a familiar whimsical ringtone rang out, causing lots of grumbling and eyes searching for the culprit.
He suppressed a smile as he heard Amalie’s flustered, “Ah! Sorry!” and then there was silence.
Everything changed after the pep talk in the bathroom. The poor young gun didn’t stand a chance. The match went three sets with Julian winning. The kid looked just as stunned as Julian did at the outcome.
Julian wasted no time scanning the crowd for a familiar head of red hair, and he felt a sudden flare of joy once he found her. She was on her feet, cheering and doing some sort of godawful dance—all of that was for him, because he did it. He actually fucking did it.
He shook his head in disbelief as he walked over to shake Taylor’s hand. Later, as he packed up his stuff, Julian realized he was still shaking, still amped from the win. He was on to the qualifying tournament, his dream that much closer to becoming a reality.
Out of nowhere, Amalie’s soft little body came crashing into him with enough force to almost knock him backward. Her arms wrapped around him and squeezed, not caring that he was soaked with sweat. Her excitement was contagious, causing him to bark out a laugh. Damn, he’d missed her.
“You did it! I knew you could do it!” she squealed.
Those words were so familiar—they were the words his dad would say after every win. He’d clap Julian on the back and pull him in for a hug, his eyes smiling so much they wrinkled at the corners like rays of the sun. It wasn’t fair that the man who taught him to love the sport couldn’t share this moment with him, his so-called comeback.
Tears burned at the back of his throat as he swallowed the emotions clawing their way up. Instead, he focused on the people who were still here.
A look of understanding crossed Amalie’s face as she squeezed his biceps a little tighter. When she spoke, her voice was bright enough to chase away any darkness. “You’re going to New York! To qualifiers—you’re so close to the Open! We should go see Paul, right? Maybe celebrate with him?”
Julian’s immediate answer, the silent one in his head was a big fat Not yet, because the truth was that he wanted her all to himself for a while. Who knew what inane “relationship” rule Paul would throw down next, now that Julian was on to the big leagues.
He gave Amalie’s hand a quick squeeze, then wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. It was a brave move, but then again, his adrenaline was set on high.
“Or we could go somewhere,” he said, staring down into her grey eyes. “Just me and you. I haven’t seen you in so long, and I’m so pumped right now. I have you to thank for this.”
Something flashed across her face, something a little like tempered panic. Her hands rested on his biceps, and he watched as her throat moved on a swallow. “Julian.”
The friction of her body against his, his words, he realized that all of it suggested something a little deeper than its surface-level meaning. He meant what he said, and he wanted nothing more than to have hours to explore every dip and curve of her body. But that invisible boundary between them, that working relationship? Yeah, he’d crossed that, judging from Amalie’s reaction.
“You know what? You probably wouldn’t be able to keep your hands off of me if we were alone, so we should go see Paul,” Julian deflected with a shrug. “I just need to take a shower first.”
Amalie’s relief was palpable as she took a step back, her expression filled with unspoken gratitude. “Please do, because you stink,” she joked as she waved a hand in front of her nose.
“You know you love it,” he shot back as he headed toward the locker room, walking backward, his eyes not leaving Amalie’s.
“In your dreams, Smoke, in your dreams.” She laughed as she turned on her heel and headed to the parking lot, leaving him beaming like an idiot in her wake.
Chapter Seventeen
Amalie
Amalie stretched with a yawn, the warmth of early morning sunlight falling across her as it filtered through the blinds. She sat up slowly from the couch, kicking the sheets and blankets off, smiling down at her freshly painted toenails that had little tennis balls painted on the big toes. Her fingernails even matched.
The last few days had been a whirlwind as she prepped for their trip to New York for qualifiers. She knew that everyone would be in their own separate hotel rooms, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t look her best. Her hair was freshly trimmed and blown out, and yeah, she might’ve gotten a bikini wax, a few new pairs of lacy underwear, and maybe even another thong, along with some sexy little skimpy pajamas that also made it look like she wasn’t trying too hard. Who knew if Julian would ask for her company to watch a movie or something…in his room. Paul had already said he’d be scarce, aside from the tournament. Either way, it didn’t mean anything would happen, but she’d be damned if she didn’t make Julian want her as much as she’d been dreaming of him. Butterflies danced in her stomach as her excitement about the day grew.
The sound of her phone dinging with an
email brought her back down to earth. She snatched it off the table lightning fast—she was expecting to hear from Stella, who she’d sent pages to last night. It was the best thing she’d written in a while. She’d enjoyed every minute of writing it, too, and felt a strong connection with the characters…probably because the characters were her and Julian. Her hands trembled as she clicked on the email. Then she read the words, any hope she’d had now completely dashed.
She clutched the arm of the sofa, an attempt to ground herself as her head floated on a wave of dizziness. She looked down at the phone again, wanting to throw it through the damn window, anything to get it the hell away from her.
As she re-read that email for the third time, her eyes pricked with tears that she refused to let fall. The email was the final nail in the coffin. Her hopes of repairing her reputation, of being published again, shattered around her.
Hi Amalie,
I regret writing this email, but I’ve been reading the pages and I just can’t seem to connect to the characters or the storyline. In the current publishing world, I don’t think I could sell this, much less an idea I’m not one hundred percent sold on. Your beginning pages had promise but along the way seemed to grow false, losing much of that heart I’d enjoyed so much in your writing in Breaking the Fall. I do wish you success in your future endeavors and hope you know that this opinion is subjective. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to read your work. It’s truly been a pleasure.
Best,
Stella
Amalie stood up straight, trying to catch her breath as everything went sideways. Once she was finally able to gulp oxygen, she released a grating scream of frustration.
It was over. All over. No one would take her now. Stella was the one person who still seemed to believe in her, who was willing to take a chance on her and now…
Amalie clutched her stomach as it roiled, her morning coffee threatening to make a reappearance. Her cell phone dinged again. It was a text from Julian. He’d made it to the airport already because Paul insisted they get there a good three hours before their flight. Normally that would’ve cheered her up, but she slumped as she darkened the screen.
Julian. She had to keep going for Julian. Just because she was destined to remain a failure didn’t mean that he was.
Maxwell’s harsh words echoed through her brain, her father’s adding to them. Both had been clear that she didn’t have what it took to be a writer, that she’d only made it this far because of her stupid last name. Part of her wanted to march up to the courthouse when they got back from New York and change it to something else, anything else but Warner.
Even though her heart was breaking, even though she knew her dream had just died a fiery death and she was left with nothing but a hole in her heart to show for it, she packed up her stuff, threw her bag over her shoulder, and shot a bird at nothing in particular, before slamming the door behind her.
The drive to the airport was filled with more angry, angsty music than she’d listened to since her teen years. Her eyes watered, ruining her mascara, but with a sniff, she sucked those tears right back in. A quick check in the mirror confirmed that her nose rivaled Rudolph’s, and her hair—she’d meant to put dry shampoo in it before she left but completely forgot—practically stood up on its own. She haphazardly twisted it into a messy bun. Screw it.
She made it through security without any trouble, aside from a few sideways glances from both the agents and fellow flyers. One sweet older woman with white hair even asked her if she was all right, to which Amalie honestly answered, “No,” feeling her eyes water again.
How could she be all right when everything was falling apart? What was she going to do with her life? She didn’t enjoy freelance writing like she thought she would, so that was out. Maybe her father had been right. Maybe he’d just seen what was staring back at her in the mirror all along.
As she made it to the gate where Julian and Paul waited, a few rogue tears slipped down her face, followed by a burning in her nose and that god-awful crying headache she always got. Her traveling companions were easy to spot because they were standing while everyone else was sitting, something that didn’t surprise her, since they were naturally a little fidgety.
Their gazes swung to her, expressions pinched with worry as they took her in. She looked down at herself, having forgotten what she was even wearing: an oversize raggedy gray shirt over black tennis shorts. It wasn’t…it wasn’t the worst thing, she supposed. But God, the rest of her was a hot mess.
Julian made the first move, meeting her before she could join them, but Paul wasn’t too far behind. Normally she would’ve checked out Julian’s ass or noticed how his clothes clung to him perfectly, highlighting the muscles he’d worked so hard for, or those green and gold lightning-strike eyes of his…but today, today there was none of that. All she could focus on was how terrible it was going to feel to admit to him, someone she cared for, someone she wanted to be proud of her, that she had once again failed.
“Stardust?” Julian moved forward to take her duffle from her shaking hands. His voice was soothing, his entire countenance protective, and it nearly broke her. She tried to keep her face from crumpling as she shook her head. Moving even closer, Julian softly touched her chin to get her to look at him. When their eyes met, she saw that his face was a study in well-worn concern, those adorable little eleven lines of his creased. “What’s wrong? Did someone hurt you? I’ll kill…”
“Easy there, Romeo,” Paul cut in with his usual dry self. “Amalie, you wanna talk about it?”
Amalie spoke while desperately trying to keep the tears at bay. “Not really, but you guys should know…” She sucked in a few quick, shallow breaths. “Stella dropped me.”
Julian grabbed her hand, squeezing it, bringing it to his mouth for the gentlest of kisses. A lifeline if there ever was one.
“She dropped me because she didn’t think the pages I sent could sell, that the book…that I—” She was winding up for a long trip down self-deprecation lane, but Julian interrupted her, leaning in even closer. Paul closed in on the other side.
“I know where you’re going with that train of thought,” Julian said, folding her into a hug, “and it’s not going to lead you anywhere good.”
For a minute, she was distracted as the comforting scent of spice and musk, of Julian wrapped around her. He was warm, and his touch was electric, but tears still raged behind her eyelids.
She stiffened in Julian’s arms as she tried to keep herself together. She was so used to maintaining appearances because a Warner “never shows weakness” and a Warner “doesn’t cry.” Such toxic statements. She knew that now.
And maybe that’s why, with Julian rubbing her back in soothing circles in the middle of a busy airport, his low timbre murmuring and coaxing reassuring truths in her ears, she finally, finally allowed herself to fall to pieces.
As Amalie exited the plane, she flexed her hand, the phantom touch of Julian’s still there. Apparently, he was terrified of flying and had spent the entire trip grasping her hand in a death grip. Being near him was, however, almost enough to temporarily distract her from her worries. For right now, she’d focus on Julian and the possibility that maybe later tonight she’d knock on his door to see if he wanted to hang out and she’d catch a glimpse of him in a towel with water beading on his muscles…
Whew, that part alone sent her imagination into overdrive.
Once outside the airport, Julian shot her a smile, one that lit up every stone-cut angle of his face. “Thank you for that back there. You made me almost forget I was on a plane. Almost.” And then he winked, sending his cuteness factor over the ledge and into the abyss of her dirty mind.
“I aim to please,” she joked as she playfully bumped his shoulder. The simple touch made her world spin.
“Do you now?” Julian’s voice pitched deep in a wicked bedroom voice, one she hadn’t heard from him before.
To play off how affected she was, she stopped, makin
g a show of looking for Paul. It wasn’t a total lie—they had actually lost sight of him. He was known to get sidetracked by an Auntie Anne’s or two.
Her eyes flashed up to meet Julian’s stare. The air between them thickened, snapping taut as he studied her. His eyes twinkled, the golden specks glinting in the fluorescent light as he crooked one corner of his lip into that trademark Julian Smoke smirk Amalie once loathed. Now?
Now she found it absurdly sexy.
“You look nervous, Stardust. Since when do I make you nervous?” He took a step closer, his tongue sneaking out to wet his lips, his eyes dropping to her mouth, then back up again.
Amalie fidgeted under his perusal and right on cue, her cheeks felt terribly hot, the tattoo twining its way down her neck and chest. Curse her porcelain skin (fine, ghostly pale skin) and its penchant for showing every single emotion.
She gave Julian a toothy smile, one that fought to grow wider because bantering with him would always be one of her favorite pastimes. “You don’t make me nervous, thank you very much. If I look nervous it’s because my blood is practically pure caffeine right now. I drank several sodas on the plane,” she answered nonchalantly.
Julian shook his head as he turned around to see Paul waving two large bags of Auntie Anne’s pretzels in the air, beaming so brightly that his lips disappeared beneath his white mustache.
“Snacks for later,” Paul explained.
Amalie’s mouth watered at the scent of melted butter, salt, and dough.
“Let’s get this show on the road, then,” Julian announced as he grabbed her luggage. “You ready for this?” he directed just to her, his voice dipping so low it made her toes curl as he led them out front where a taxi van waited.
Ready for what? For a late-night rendezvous with him? Because, yes. For qualifiers? Because, yes again.
Not sure how to answer, she just shrugged in a yes/no, noncommittal way.
Painting the Lines: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Ace of Hearts Book 1) Page 16