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

by Ashley R. King

  Julian snickered as he pulled out of the parking lot. “I’m worried about the ticket I’ll get if you don’t have your seat belt on.”

  He saw Amalie stiffen out of the corner of his eye.

  “Harsh. Anyway.” She held up her journal. “Tell me how you got into tennis.”

  He didn’t even try to hide his sigh of relief. Okay. That was pretty tame. He could answer that. “That’s easy. My dad.”

  Amalie scribbled something in her notebook and then said, “Your dad. He coached you. Tell me about him.”

  That tension from earlier? It ratcheted up a few notches as a buzzing sound filled Julian’s head. “No.”

  “No? What do you mean ‘no’? I need this—”

  “No.” He sliced a hand through the air between them. “My dad is off-limits. Next question.”

  Silence.

  Julian was almost afraid to look at Amalie, but his curiosity got the best of him. She was sending little hate daggers into him with her eyes.

  “Fine,” she replied. “For now. Tell me what it feels like when you get on the court. I saw you the other night—” She stopped, and the rest of her sentence ended in a garbled mess before she turned her face toward the window.

  “What do you mean you saw me the other night? Where?”

  Amalie shrugged; her notebook suddenly became very interesting.

  “Oh, so I have to talk, but you don’t? Where did you see me, Amalie?”

  With a drawn-out breath, she leaned back in the seat, shielding her face with her notebook. Why did that endear her to him? It was cute as hell.

  “Fine,” she said. “I saw you at the tennis courts playing in the dark.”

  His skin felt unnaturally tight. There was a lot he wanted to say, because that night, that night, he’d been working through some serious demons, and that was something he wanted kept private. To know she’d been there?

  His hands tightened on the wheel. “That wasn’t for you to see.”

  Her entire body slumped forward on a sigh. “I know.” She tapped her knee and then the rest of her words came out in a rush. “I wanted to leave, I did, but you were so passionate that it was hypnotizing. I’m really sorry, Julian. I shouldn’t have intruded, and I promise it won’t happen again.”

  He glanced at her hunched form, her slender fingers now picking at something on her capris, her mouth a straight line. He hadn’t missed the force of sincerity in her voice—she’d meant that apology, and now she looked absolutely miserable. He drummed his hands on the wheel. He knew the perfect way to break the tension.

  “You’re a lot of things, Amalie Warner, but I never took you for a stalker.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but there was a smile glinting in their depths. “In your dreams.”

  “Yup. And you’re always the star, ever since that night at the bar,” Julian teased, though if he was honest, it wasn’t a lie.

  He was rewarded when he turned to find her face had gone beet red.

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

  He chuckled and turned into the tennis center. Once parked, neither of them moved. He noticed Amalie had a hair stuck to her lip and, of course, his hands had a mind of their own and reached out and pulled it away.

  That was a terrible idea, because the touch of her lips on his finger? It caused all kinds of images of her mouth, and none of them were in G-rated territory. He wanted to rub his fingers against her lips again, slower, so that he could catalog the dip of her upper lip.

  He couldn’t help but think of when she’d touched his mouth at the gym, even if her reason was to shut him up—it’d worked, but it also made it difficult to concentrate on anything else but her. Did she feel like that now? Was she affected by his touch?

  God, he hoped so.

  When he looked up, Amalie was completely still, so still that he actually wondered if she was still breathing. “You had a, uh, hair,” he explained lamely, realizing he’d leaned halfway over the console.

  Amalie blinked a few times before moving away and shoving her notebook back into her purse. “Well, that was enlightening,” she growled as she practically tore the handle off the door to get out as fast as humanly possible.

  “What? How fast you can actually move when you want to?” Julian snorted as he unbuckled his seat belt and rounded the car to the trunk.

  Amalie glared at him, her expression nothing short of fierce. “Look, I’m hoping I get more from you soon, because at this point all I know is that my main character is a giant ass.”

  Julian bit his lip to keep it from tilting upward. Messing with her was so much fun, giving back just as good as she gave. There was something about her when she was angry, the way her lips tightened, how she cocked her hip, putting her hands there. Sexy as hell. When he didn’t say anything, she huffed, threw up the hood of her sweatshirt, and dipped down to grab her tote bag.

  Julian held up his hands in wordless surrender, the first she’d ever gotten out of him, before grabbing his racket bag out of the trunk. That bag housed his most prized possessions.

  His heart drummed wildly, in time with each step he took toward the court. It was a bittersweet moment, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to pick up the phone and call his dad. He still did that way too often and wondered if the instinct would ever go away. Nine years was a long time, but apparently not long enough.

  “Hey.” Amalie snapped her fingers in front of his face, doing her best to keep up with his long strides. Julian blinked a few times, surprised that he’d zoned out so easily. “I need you to focus, all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it.” He waved her off as they stepped onto the court, the hard surface familiar beneath his shoes. He sighed. On the tennis court, he felt whole again.

  “There’s Paul.” Amalie pointed to a short, rotund older man carrying a ball hopper onto the opposite side of the court. His white polo was crisp and bright, clinging tightly to his form. Paul had a gray beard covering most of his tanned face and wore a hat rocking the Roger Federer logo, a mess of salt and pepper hair escaping beneath it.

  This guy couldn’t be for real. You never saw a tennis coach that out of shape or that old in any of the pro players’ boxes.

  Julian turned to Amalie, his voice sharp with agitation. “Who is this guy?” Paul hadn’t yet noticed them hidden in the shade at the far end of the court as he waddled around, busying himself with cones.

  Amalie lifted a brow, mouth pinched. She had yet to figure out that when she looked at him like that, well, it pretty much egged him on.

  Her voice was all business. “He used to play.”

  Julian laughed, disbelief causing his eyebrows to jump up to his hairline. “On tour?”

  Amalie nodded slowly. “Yeah, for a few years.”

  Julian scrubbed a hand down his face. He was already tired, and now he was getting irritated. He should’ve known Amalie would set him up with a hack job. He should have insisted that he pick his own coach instead of this penguin wearing a human suit.

  “How am I supposed to learn from this guy?”

  “Hey, he used to be a pro. No offense, but nobody wants to coach you. I had to practically bribe Paul to do this.”

  Julian scoffed. “What are you paying him in? Donuts?”

  A deep voice with a Brooklyn accent interrupted their argument. They both turned to Paul as he said, “Okay, wise guy. Get on the court. Let’s warm-up. Or do you even know what that is, cupcake?” Amalie buried her mouth in the neck of her hoodie, but Julian knew she was laughing as Paul winked before warning, “I won’t say it again. Get on the court.”

  Julian dropped his bag and grabbed his racket, struggling to conceal his frustration. He’d do one practice with the guy and then he’d tell Amalie either he picked the coach or the whole thing was off—dream or no dream.

  The first thing Paul did was have Julian work through a series of dynamic stretches—the usual arm circles, ab twists, high knees, and jumping jacks.

  �
�You ready to do a few warm-up drills?” Paul asked before shoveling two pieces of Juicy Fruit gum into his mouth.

  Julian lifted his chin, feeling his attitude flare. “I’ve been ready.”

  Paul pointed at him with his racket. “The lack of a tour card says otherwise, boy. You forget only one of us on this court was pro for longer than a couple of months.”

  Julian winced at the low blow, even though he deserved it.

  Without another word, Julian let Paul lead him through a series of warm-ups—backboard drills, medicine ball catching, and throwing at the service line. Then they moved into mini tennis drills like serves and volleys, cross and alternate hitting. Paul was a beast, not even out of breath as they switched to lobs and overheads.

  Paul broke everything down, explaining as they moved through each drill, even though Julian was already familiar with the moves. Julian admired how Paul was a big server like him, rearing back as he tossed the ball, hitting it with a good, solid smack.

  A cell phone alarm went off, causing Paul to straighten. He gave Julian an evil little smile as he walked to the bench, shut off the alarm, and drank a few sips of water. “Twenty minutes is up. Ready to hit for real?”

  Julian tried not to roll his eyes as he walked to where Amalie held out a water bottle for him. The kind gesture shocked him, and if it hadn’t already been sealed, he would’ve checked for poison because, well, that was their thing.

  “Yeah, let’s do this.” He gave Paul a stony look as he passed the water bottle back to Amalie, who was surprisingly silent.

  Paul’s serves started off soft, despite what he’d done earlier, and Julian was able to hit them back over the net with ease.

  “Is that all you got, old man? I thought we were training here?”

  Yeah, he was a cocky and arrogant asshole, but he didn’t exactly have a lot of time to waste, with the US Open only seven months away. It took place the last week of August and ran into the first week of September. Seven months would fly by.

  Paul’s brown eyes narrowed beneath his Federer cap, and Julian felt his balls shrink a little. That look, coupled with the way he reared back to crush the ball, was, in truth, terrifying.

  But Amalie was watching, and Julian couldn’t suck because his pride would be shot. Then there was the fact that she’d probably find someone else, someone she actually got along with, to help her write her book. He knew his main appeal was the fact that he had former star power, a ready-built fan base, and she believed he could do it again. He didn’t think there were a lot of washed-up tennis players within her grasp, but even so, he didn’t want to jinx it. So Julian pulled from some long-lost reserve and played lights-out tennis.

  Paul ran him all over the court while yelling, “There you go, kid, letting your mind get in the way,” or “Tennis ain’t for the faint of heart.”

  Finally, after what felt like the longest rally of Julian’s life, Paul hit an incredible winner. The sound of the ball smacking the asphalt echoed through the small court.

  Julian froze, eyes wide with shock, mouth hanging open as he stared at the older man. “What the hell?” he muttered under his breath as he looked at Paul and then to where he’d landed the ball on Julian’s side of the court. He didn’t even have a chance; there was no way he would’ve been able to get to it in time.

  Amalie bounced on her toes at the sideline, clapping wildly, pen clamped between her teeth. Her eyes were bright as two stars as she ran to meet Julian and Paul at the net.

  Damn, was that a sight to behold. The day had warmed a little, thanks to the South’s mercurial weather, so she’d shed her hoodie and now wore a fitted long sleeve tee that didn’t do one fucking thing to hide her absolutely delicious curves.

  Jeez. He had to get a hold on his hormones, something that proved easier to do than he imagined, because when Amalie arrived at his side, she only gave him a quick once-over, as though he were an afterthought.

  “That was amazing,” she gushed at the coach. “I don’t even know what you did there or what it was called, but it was killer.”

  “You’re gonna have to learn about tennis if you’re writing a book about it, Amalie,” Paul said. “You’ll need to describe matches in detail. Go into my office and grab the book on my desk, will ya? I’ll let you borrow it for research.” Paul dug his office keys out of his pocket and handed them over to Amalie. With a quick point in the direction of his office, he sent her on her way. Then he turned his full attention on Julian.

  Before Paul could say anything, Julian stuck out his hand. “That was some good tennis, Paul. I’m sorry for doubting you. It’s obvious I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  Yeah, it was like chewing nails, and each word was a tiny stab to his ego, but he’d decided in the final moments of that rally that Paul Mercado was no joke. He would be a damn good coach who could teach Julian a lot. And he would keep him in line. A small part of him knew Paul reminded Julian of his dad. Oliver Smoke never took any of his son’s crap, on or off the court, and didn’t hesitate to call him on it if it’d make him a better player, or more importantly, a better man. He sensed the same in Paul.

  A familiar ache rose in Julian’s chest as he imagined his father clapping him on the shoulder one last time. He’d do anything for one more pointer or one more “Good game, son.”

  Paul gave Julian a curt nod and shook his hand. “Anthony Fox was your manager? After your father?”

  Talk about another punch, this time to the balls. Julian wished memories were like trash—that you could get rid of the ones you didn’t want anymore, the ones that rotted and festered in your mind.

  Julian croaked out a small, “Yeah.”

  Paul unwrapped two more pieces of Juicy Fruit and pushed them into his mouth, never breaking eye contact with Julian. “Anthony Fox is a ‘yes man’ who only cares about money and endorsements. He doesn’t give a hoot about this sport or its players. He whores out both, but I’m figuring you already know that, don’t you?”

  The man’s steady gaze bore into Julian, causing him to squirm a bit, but shockingly he was able to find his words. “Yeah. I know all about it.”

  And that was one hell of an understatement. Anthony Fox was flashy and had dollar signs in his eyes ever since they’d first met. He’d precipitated Julian’s demise in the tennis world.

  “And I know Anthony let you do whatever you wanted because you were his number one moneymaker. Before we do this, you need to understand that I’m nothing like that lowlife. I’m going to call you on every little thing you do, on and off the court. Got it?”

  Julian swallowed the lump in his throat as he nodded, his hands gripping the net.

  Paul looked over his shoulder where Amalie had disappeared and then turned back to Julian. “Man, I actually know a lot about you. I used to tell people, ‘That kid’s going to be the next Roger Federer.’”

  Julian squeezed his eyes shut, trying to contain the emotions swirling around inside him. When he opened his eyes, Paul continued. “But then I saw you play in one of your first big tournaments, and I knew by the look in your eye that you didn’t have it there mentally, that you weren’t ready. I can tell you have more talent than most players out on the tour now, but if you don’t love tennis, love the struggle, then you’re never going to be truly great.”

  Paul studied him as he let those words settle. Julian knew everything the old man said was the truth because his father used to say the same thing. Somewhere along the way Julian lost himself, lost the love for the sport and the appreciation for the game. It became a mindless blur of money and entourages and popularity, but this, this was what he wanted more than anything now. He didn’t care about all that superficial stuff anymore. He just wanted to play, and to win.

  “I want to fall in love with tennis again,” he admitted.

  “And I can be the one to help you do that. I’m gonna teach you how to start painting the lines again.”

  Painting the lines. How long had it been since he’d been able t
o do that, been able to hit the ball on the line, anytime he needed to?

  Across the court, a door slammed behind them and a frustrated Amalie appeared. She ran a hand through her wavy red hair.

  Even though he could see she was flustered, Amalie was nothing short of polite as she handed Paul’s keys back over to him. “I looked all over that office of yours, Paul. I couldn’t find that book anywhere.”

  Julian found himself entirely too entranced by the way her lips formed words and how cute the freckles high on her cheeks were, like little constellations. He shook his head to clear those thoughts. He needed to get laid but, sadly, tennis was the only mistress allowed for now.

  Paul nodded thoughtfully before bursting out with, “Oh! That’s right. I have it in my bag. Here, let me get it for you.” He looked over the top of her head and gave Julian a wink.

  That sneaky bastard.

  Chapter Eight

  Amalie

  A routine formed over the next month after Julian dropped down to part-time at Madison Pharmaceuticals. Amalie and Julian would meet at her place and run the trail to the pond behind her dad’s mansion. No one really visited the pond anymore, since it had once been her mom’s pet project. She could still remember the day Katharine Warner teetered around the water’s edge in her red-soled Louboutins, directing where she wanted the benches, gazebo, and flowers.

  “Amalie? You stretching or daydreaming?” Julian called out, a playful tilt to his lips as he pulled his quad back in a stretch. They were both bundled in sweats and beanies, since Georgia decided to try its hand at a real winter. “I’m a writer. I’m always daydreaming.” Her mind roamed again as she attempted a few half-hearted stretches. She thought about the pages she’d just written and the two protagonists she’d created, Jax and Penelope. Penelope was a good mix of Romina and herself. Definitely the strongest character she’d written so far, which made sense. Who else did she know better than herself and her best friend? Penelope got shit done, and she didn’t take no for an answer, something Amalie had been trying to channel into her own life.