Emotion crashed over him, the roar of the crowd thundering in his ears as he fell to the court, his hands covering his face as tears overtook him. He felt his dad looking down on him, patting him on the shoulder and saying, “Good job, son. I’m proud of you.”
Julian drew his necklace out of his shirt, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. When he stood, he pointed toward the heavens. This was everything he’d worked for, everything he’d wanted for so long. He’d done it.
Now it was time to get the girl.
Chapter Thirty-One
Amalie
Julian climbed the stands, people patting him on the back as he wove his way through the crowd. He was coming for her, his eyes locked on her the entire time.
Amalie held her breath and held onto Romina’s shoulder, because she felt like she just might float up and away. Each step that brought him closer made her smile grow wider, her heart racing with the unknown.
As the crowd’s cheers swelled to a crescendo, Julian reached the box. His eyes were still locked on her, as though she were the only thing that existed, the intensity smoldering in his gaze enough to set her soul ablaze.
She opened her mouth to say something. What? Congratulations? Great match? But before she could find the words, Julian grabbed her around the waist, pulled her body to his, and his lips crashed down on hers. Frantic. Wild. Desperate.
Perfect.
Fireworks went off behind her eyelids, every single part of her in flames. She kissed him with reckless abandon, throwing everything she felt into that kiss, her hands twined in his sweaty hair, his hands tangled in her wild waves.
Nothing else existed in that moment. Well, until the announcer said, with way too much cheek, “Well, folks, I guess Smoke succeeded in dating Miss Warner after all.”
Cheers and whoops from the crowd brought them back to the real world. Amalie felt the reluctance in Julian’s muscles as he slowly pulled away and looked down into her eyes. “I love you, Amalie Warner. I’ve been holding that in all this time, and I’m tired of it. All I want is you, Stardust, just you. Can you give me that?” His tone was earnest and unsure despite his expression.
Amalie’s heart fluttered, tears misting her eyes. “I think I can do that,” she teased. Then, laughing and crying at the same time, she finally uttered the words she’d been dying to say for so long. “I love you, too, Julian Smoke. So much.”
Epilogue
Amalie
ONE YEAR LATER
“You ready?” Julian asked as he bent down to kiss Amalie’s temple.
“Let’s do this.” She grinned, rearranging the books on the table one more time. This signing was the biggest one by far, one at The Strand in none other than New York City. For years this had been Amalie’s dream to host an event at this very bookstore. As a gift for the finalized casting of the Painting the Lines film, her publisher made it happen.
She caught a glimpse of the line outside, and when Julian came in, he’d confirmed that people were wrapped around the building and down the street, everyone giddily holding copies of her book. What a surreal thing to hear.
As she took a deep breath, happiness filtering deep down into her lungs, she realized she didn’t fully appreciate the success of Breaking the Fall. She felt like a debut author all over again, and this time she was determined to do things right. As a matter of fact, she’d already written her next novel and it was in the process of going through its final edits with her amazing editor.
The door opened again, her head snapping up to see Paul and Charlotte piling inside. “Me and my girl here are ready to celebrate!” Paul guffawed as he leaned down and pulled Amalie into an embrace as Julian’s mom gave her a floral-scented peck on the cheek.
“Paul, we’ve discussed this—” Julian griped even as a smile struggled to break free across his beautiful face.
“And I’ve told you love is love and can’t be helped when it strikes, son. When you know, you know.” Paul clapped his former athlete on the shoulder.
A lot had happened in the last year. Paul was engaged to Julian’s mom, after many good-natured complaints from Julian of course. Julian quit tennis to open the Oliver Smoke Tennis Center, his very own center built with the earnings from his wild run at the US Open a year ago. He wrangled Paul into the adventure despite the fact that after the US Open, practically every tennis player wanted Mercado as their coach.
With all of his success, Julian had been right by Amalie’s side during hers…as her husband. Yep, they’d gotten hitched a few months after the Open because, like Paul said, when you know, you know.
“Hey! You didn’t start the party without us, did you?” Andrew Warner called from somewhere in the shelves—of course, he’d found a side door to enter because he was extra like that. Simone and Tallulah were in tow, everyone all smiles.
“Amwee!” Tallulah, her three-year-old niece, squealed as she rushed toward Amalie, wrapping her in a sticky hug.
“Of course not, Pops,” Julian smirked. Oh yeah. He’d taken to calling her dad Pops because it rankled like a mother. But Andrew Warner, having undergone some sort of major soul reconstruction, would only flinch and squeeze his eyes shut for a brief moment. It was safe to say that he’d finally stepped up and done everything he could to make up for all those lost years.
Simone reached into her suitcase-sized purse and pulled out a copy of Painting the Lines and slid it across the table.
“What’s this?” Amalie picked it up, noting the worn corners.
“It’s from us!” Romina called out from the doorway, coming in with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a bag of plastic champagne flutes in the other.
“We all signed it and made sure to get a couple of people from your other signings around the country to sign it as well,” Simone explained softly.
Amalie’s eyes watered as she opened it, her fingers tracing over the inked words of so many who loved her, who supported her, who believed in her.
“Hey, Stardust,” Julian said as he bent down so he was eye level with her, his fingers pressing softly into her cheek. “Have I told you how proud I am of you? How proud I am to be your husband? Just how much I love you?” His voice cracked with emotion, his eyes glassy.
“Only every day.” Amalie smiled back, placing the book on the signing table so that she could move her hands over the scruff on his face. “I love you too, Smoke.”
“Get a room!” Paul interrupted playfully.
Amalie turned. “We have several as a matter of fact.”
“And have christened each extremely well, I must say,” Julian added without missing a beat.
“Oh, God.” Andrew covered his ears while everyone else laughed and started to get settled.
“Are you ready, Mrs. Smoke?” the manager asked as she motioned to the door where fans were peeking in at the curious assembling of all the people that Amalie loved most.
“I’m ready.” Amalie grinned back. She’d always be ready, ready to live her dreams, ready to love to the fullest, ready to give the world hell.
THE END
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And don’t miss more romance like INTERNSHIP WITH THE DEVIL by City Owl Author, Jaqueline Snowe. Turn the page for a sneak peek!
Sneak Peek of Internship with the Devil
By Jaqueline Snowe
“Hi, I'm supposed to meet Mr. Anderson in about ten minutes. Could you point me in the right direction?” I held my arms against my stomach, hoping it looked natural and not like my nerves were shot to hell. This internship was a dream come true.
“You're going to want to head down this hallway, turn right once you pass the locker room.” The security guard’s smile stretched across his weathered face. His nametag read Barry.
I liked Barry instantly. I waved, thanking him as I headed to meet my temporary boss.
I checked my watc
h—I still had time. I probably looked like a damn lunatic, walking and smiling at everything. Despite being awful at playing sports, I loved them. I was clumsy, and got way too winded when I walked upstairs, but watching football and baseball for hours? I'd do that for days. And now I was going to be able to work with athletes. Learning from athletic trainers at the college level. Hell. Yes.
I turned right after the locker room. The offices had names on them and I looked until I found Brock Anderson. I reviewed what I learned about him before I knocked. He played college football, but only three years in the NFL, before suffering a career ending injury. He was fairly young, just twenty-eight, an alumnus of the school, and was known to whip athletes into amazing shape. He got his masters in Athletic Training. I was going to learn so damn much.
With a smile that I had been told was too big for my face, I knocked on the door. I waited, hearing voices from within the office and froze when the door opened.
No. This couldn't be.
It was The Asshole.
From the bar a week ago.
No.
My stomach about fell through my ass, like gravity had given up on me at that moment. He stared at me, those scary blue eyes seeing through me. Maybe he worked here. No way this was Mr. Anderson. The pictures showed a clean shaven, handsome guy who maybe didn’t smile. This guy had shaggy hair, dark beard, no smile at all. My gaze darted to his polo, which stretched tight across his chest. And what a chest it was.
Focus, Grace.
Shit.
Anderson was embroidered underneath the school’s logo.
Shit. Damn. Balls.
He was my new supervisor.
My fist clenched.
“Uh, hi. I'm Grace Turner.” I held out my sweaty hand, hoping the trembling wasn't too obvious. I needed to get off to a good start. My career goals were important. More important than this guy being a dick. So, I waited. And waited. And waited.
His lips turned downward. So much so that it had to hurt his face. My hand still hung between us, awkward and a mixture of embarrassment to the tenth degree. He moved one of his hands to scratch his jaw, bringing my attention to his incredible jawline.
I dropped my hand. I couldn't handle the flip-flopping going on in my stomach, and when I got uncomfortable, word vomit ensued. Hence, why I decided to attempt being friendly. “Are you Brock Anderson? I'm the one who received the internship for the season. I'm Grace. I’m so excited for this opportunity.”
I’d introduced myself. Again. And, he still hadn't said a word. Someone moved into view from his office and gave me a small wave. I returned the gesture to the older gentleman and that was when Asshole Anderson spoke.
“Excuse me.” He motioned with his large wrist for me to leave the office.
I stepped back, shocked, and gasped when he shut the door in my face. What. The. Hell. I pinched my nose, taking deep breaths. I counted to three a couple of times and calmed myself down, but then loud, angry voices carried through the door. It was him, his voice brasher and deeper than anyone else's. So, I did what anyone would do. I listened.
“I refuse to train immature people. Look, Victor—” Someone interrupted him, Victor, my guess. I couldn't decipher what Victor said, but Brock Asshole Anderson didn't like it. Not one bit.
“She was the best option? I doubt it. Come on. Assign her to someone else. I don't have time for an attention-hungry little girl. I want someone serious who works their ass off. Not her.” His voice carried through the door, stabbing me like a bunch of knives.
Attention-hungry.
Little girl.
Not serious.
Not her.
Hell. No. My fists clenched at my sides, my heart raced way past the point of comfort, and I contemplated a million ways to kill him. But, that wouldn't help my goals, and I was that tenacious, annoying person who, when told they couldn’t do something, determined to prove them wrong.
He’d judged me. Entirely incorrectly, but a judgment all the same. Maybe he remembered me from the bar. Sure, I tried flirting after a dare from my best friend, and he made it clear he wasn't interested. Quite clear. If he remembered me from that night, it didn’t bode well for me. It wasn’t like I threw myself at him. I just offered to buy him a drink and after a quick look up and down, he laughed and said absolutely not. Shame and regret clogged my throat.
Without waiting to hear what else was said, I took life by the balls. I had learned from a young age that I had to fight for what I wanted in life. Happiness? That was a choice I had to work at every day. I sensed my mom cheering for me from above when I pounded on the door, hard.
The voices stopped, someone letting out a curse. Then, the door opened. Brad grimaced at my expression. I had been told I had a fire in my eyes when I got pissed. I had more than fire right now. I was a raging inferno. “As much as I enjoyed your polite, pleasant conversation, I earned the internship.”
Brock Asshole Anderson stared me down.
If he wanted to see me squirm, that was too damn bad. I crossed my arms and raised my eyebrows in challenge.
Victor, clearly not the alpha in this situation, gave me a quick nod and strolled out. “We'll talk later, Brock.”
That left me and him. He blinked at me, assessing me, sighing so deeply it took a minute for it to leave his lungs. He had to have massive lungs, right? He was massive. The sarcastic side of my brain then chipped in, he also was a massive asshole.
“Don't wear that here.” He scolded my carefully planned outfit—a professional black dress—and my skin tingled with embarrassment. “Wear team gear.”
He continued, “Be here every day at seven. You'll have a quick lunch and the time changes every day. You'll leave at four.” He moved from the doorway to sit at his desk, shuffling through papers.
I cringed. My classes began at four Tuesdays and Thursdays, but I was not going to give him any excuse. I hoped my professors accepted me being tardy or I would be screwed.
“Okay.”
“Once games start, you're expected at every home and away game. I'll have my secretary print you a schedule. If you're late once, you're done.” He looked up, eyes smoldering. “Absolutely none of the flirting shit or dating any of the players. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” I croaked, still shocked at his crassness. His words erased any doubt over whether he remembered that night. But I wouldn’t acknowledge it. I remained at the doorframe, awkward, uncomfortable, angry, and sweaty. I chewed on my bottom lip, unsure what to do. His jaw clenched, his gaze briefly going to my mouth. It was so quick I almost missed it.
He cleared his throat, darting his gaze to the chair in front of him. “Sit.”
I obeyed like a desperate, foolishly hopeful girl. I needed, wanted, dreamed of this chance. He would not ruin it. It was only four months. I could put up with the Asshole for four months. “We'll do a tour of the stadium today after we set some ground rules.”
I nodded but twisted my hands in my lap.
He stood, grabbed a radio and a clipboard, then marched out the door so quickly I barely had time to keep up. “Ain't my fault you wore those shoes. I don't slow down for anyone. If you can't keep up, I'll consider you lazy.”
And that was how I spent my morning.
I walked faster than I ever had, my shoes clicking on the cement floor. He showed me the offices where the trainers, EMTs, and coaches spent most of their time. I visited the various gyms and weight rooms, the mats, the pool, and the film room. We walked around the track at least twenty times, going over where the water house was, the spickets, the hoses, and the water bottles. It was noon when we finished the tour and blisters upon blisters formed on my ankles. But, I would not let him win. Not today.
“The Special Teams group is out practicing. They need water. Consider this your first assignment.” He narrowed his eyes and had an innocent expression cross his face as I eyed the distance between the field and water house, then my footwear choice. It specifically said on the email from my counselor that I wou
ld only meet to talk today. There wasn't supposed to be any duties until classes began. Joke was on me. This was an internship with the devil.
“Okay,” I said, finding a deep determination inside myself. I had filled countless coolers in high school. I worked football games, volleyball tournaments, and baseball games. I had taped ankles, cleaned wounds, held hands, and watched athletes cry. I could do this.
He whistled at someone and strode off in the other direction.
This was a test. And I would pass it.
I made my way to the storage room back inside the stands. I pulled out all three and carried them to the water house. It was open, thank god, because I refused to ask for help. I began filling the first one.
With it filled, I added ice. It was a blistering summer afternoon, and the players had to be dying. Hell, I was sweating my ass off, but my dress was so dark sweat wouldn't be noticeable. The cooler was heavier than most trays I carried waitressing. I lugged it to the bench, sweat dripping down my face. One down, two to go.
I did it again, and on the third one, my arms burned. Shit. This job required me to have more muscles, and more muscles meant gym time. Ugh. I was wiping my neck with the back of my hand when someone snuck behind me.
“Excuse me, but I'm not used to seeing people dressed like this on the field.” I twisted to see a friendly, grinning man. He stood at least six feet, dressed in khaki shorts and a navy polo. What was it with football people and polos? They were not stylish, at all.
“Ah, yes. About that. I was under the impression I would get a tour and that's it. But I officially began my internship today. I'm Grace Turner.” I held out my hand, and he took it in his large one.
Painting the Lines: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Ace of Hearts Book 1) Page 27