“You ready, princess?” Julian’s voice cut through the reverie. His hands were cupped in front of his face as he blew his breath into them.
“Might as well be,” she offered with a weak smile.
Julian led the way, and as she watched him break into a jog, she couldn’t help but think of Jax. Every time she wrote a line that came from Jax’s mouth it was Julian’s smooth, rich voice that said it. It was Julian’s fingers that lingered over her, um, er, Penelope’s lips, not hers, totally not hers. She shook her head at the thought.
But even though Julian had given her that instant spark of inspiration, he’d failed to give her anything else. She wanted to know more about tennis and how it felt to be an athlete. What did it feel like to win a hard-fought match or to lose one? That’s what she was after today, and that’s what she intended to get.
“Julian,” Amalie called, her words breathy. Had he picked up the pace? “Julian,” she said again. His eyes were on the path ahead of them, but the pace increased a little more.
Aggravated and maybe channeling her inner Penelope, she popped his headphones from his ears. “Julian!”
A flock of birds erupted from the field at the sound.
“Damn, what the hell?” He yanked his headphones down, careful not to break stride.
“I’ve been trying to get your attention, but you keep running faster every time I say your name. Coincidence?” She would’ve tapped her chin and done this whole head tilt thing, but she was really trying not to die. She dodged a rock in the path, careful not to trip because that’s all she needed—another coordination fiasco in front of Julian.
A chuckle escaped Julian’s perfectly plush lips. “Whatever you want to believe, princess, but I don’t like talking on runs. Thought we established that on day one.”
“Why don’t you like to talk? Because you’re ashamed of your vocabulary? I have a dictionary that can help you with that,” she joked, playing into the jock stereotype because she knew Julian couldn’t stand it.
He clenched his jaw as he shook his head, and then looked back at the wooded path. There were a few low-hanging branches, and they wouldn’t hesitate to smack a careless passerby in the face. “I don’t like to talk because I like to focus on my breathing and pacing. Nothing to do with vocabulary, I can assure you. Although I’m pretty sure if you’d let me, I could teach you a few new words followed by my name. Loudly.”
Oh. Oh, wow. She bet he could teach her a whole set of new words—with his lips on hers, trailing down her neck, dipping to her collarbone, going lower…
“You got some serious sex eyes going on right now.” Julian laughed. Deep. Rumbly. Hot.
“Do not,” Amalie protested, wishing she’d worn her sunglasses. Julian’s stare pierced the side of her face and there was nowhere to hide as they ran side by side.
“It’s cool. I know you want me. Only a matter of time.” His breath clouded in the air.
Amalie blew out a long, agitated breath. “I see you’re delusional as usual today.”
“Honest is a better term, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Like you don’t check out my ass every chance you get,” she snarled.
“Like you don’t love it when I do.”
“Just…just shut up,” Amalie sputtered, holding up a bouncing hand.
“Thought you wanted me to talk?”
She could just say forget it, but she needed this. Most of her life she felt helpless, and this one last shot actually gave her power. If she could do this, never again would she have to worry about her asshole father manipulating her life. She could still hear his insult echoing through her mind, that she wasn’t really a Warner. Well, maybe not, not in the way he wanted her to be. Either way, she would prove she could get shit done by simply being Amalie. She’d show the world she was meant to do this, meant to write. Those thoughts fueled her desire to fight for details from Julian.
“I need information for the book, Julian, and today you’ll give me something.” Her feet pounded the earth in determination as she kept pace with him.
His heated stare flicked to her mouth. “I could give you something you’d like. That pretty blush on your cheeks tells me that much.”
Denying the ache snaking through her belly, she feigned offense when she was pretty damn intrigued. “God, you’re the king of deflection. I mean, it’s the coldest morning of the year and I’m out here running with you. You’d think you’d answer at least one of my questions.”
He didn’t answer, just picked up the pace, enough that it was a struggle to talk and breathe.
“Tell me how you get your mind right for a match. How do you stay focused?”
“Well,” he began, “to get in the zone, you listen to music with a good rhythm. You know, drums and bass to get you pumped.”
Careful not to scare him back into his shell, Amalie asked the next question softly. “I get that. What about during the match?”
Julian wiped his brow with his sweatshirt, revealing his abs that were slowly coming into being, and Amalie had to quickly look ahead so she wouldn’t trip over something. Thankfully he wasn’t looking at her, so he couldn’t see the drool forming at the corner of her lips.
“You have to stay focused on each ball and fight the whole time,” he said. “You have to keep your mind on that goal—fighting for each point. If you do that, you’ll win a lot of matches, but if you don’t, you’ll start worrying about who’s in the crowd, what the score is, and you should never worry about what the score is. You only worry about the next point, that’s it.”
Amalie’s brows lifted. “See, that wasn’t so hard…was it?” They navigated their way around the pond, her eyes drawn to the mist rising off of its surface.
“Kind of, since I just want to concentrate on the run.”
“Smart-ass. Okay, now tell me about coaches. What do you look for in a coach? What did you like about your dad’s coaching style? How did he motivate you?” She knew she was pushing it on the dad issue.
“I told you, I’m not talking about my dad right now.”
“But he was your coach. How can you talk about tennis and not talk about him?”
“Look, do you really need to talk to me to get your tennis stuff right? Can’t you just watch me and write it down and make it sound pretty?”
“No. I need to know you in order to know Jax.”
“Who’s Jax?”
“Jax is you.”
“Jax is me?”
“Yeah, you. Jax is you in my novel. So, I need to talk to you so it can be authentic. I don’t know how to get that through to you.” She stumbled but quickly righted herself, trying to find the rhythm of her feet again. She really wanted to ask him about a certain gorgeous model named Nadine Merriweather who’d popped up in some of her internet searches, but something told her today was not that day. Instead, she went a different route. “If you won’t talk about your dad, then maybe tell me about that Fox guy. Didn’t catch his first name, but I heard you and Paul talking about him the other day.”
“That’s a big hell no.”
“Julian. You will talk to me about one of them.” Amalie panted as the pace increased yet again. Damn it. Her legs were screaming at her to quit.
“Nah. I’m pretty fast, so not today.” With that Julian took off down the dirt path, dust kicking up at his heels. That biteable ass in those sweats.
“Julian Smoke, get back here!” Amalie yelled, but he’d already disappeared.
Amalie sat on the courtside bleachers, notebook in hand, bundled in her sweats, raincoat, and a blanket she’d found in her car. She kept blowing warm breath into her scarf to thaw her nose. The chilly air had grown damp with the threat of rain, which would equal hell. For a minute she even contemplated watching practice from her car, but this was her dream. She’d promised herself to do whatever it took to make it happen, even if it meant freezing her butt off.
She glanced at the court just as Julian hit the last shot before Paul called it a day. She�
��d asked Paul to torture Julian for leaving her on their run, but Paul just shook his head, a grin stretching wide beneath his mustache, and training went on as usual.
Her eyes followed Julian as he sauntered over to his bag, talking to his weekend training partners—players from the UGA tennis team. Julian’s schedule was tough and would only grow in difficulty the closer they drew to August.
On a normal day, Julian trained with Paul twice, Romina once, and during his ever-dwindling downtime, Paul had him watching tape for two hours. It was busy and exhausting, but Julian never once complained, even on days when he had to squeeze all of that in on top of work. He did bark at her here and there, and occasionally they even had an amicable moment, but he never once said he wanted to quit or that it was too hard. It made Amalie take stock of her own life as she sat night after night, staring at a blank page. Stella, her agent, had asked for new chapters, but after those initial pages of banter between Penelope and Jax, Amalie had nothing.
She slumped over her gray notebook, the one that had become like a third limb. Her inability to write wasn’t the only thing bothering her, though. She couldn’t figure Julian out. One minute he was civil and halfway decent and the next he was condescending and rude and, well, Julian. It was clear that if this little venture of theirs was to be successful, then it would have to be up to her. The “rich girl” barb was one he’d cleverly crafted to get under her skin, but what she had to do, or at least try to do, was appear unaffected. So lately, each time he threw that one out there, she turned to stone—no expression or line of emotion aside from boredom, which she now plastered to her face as she heard footsteps approach.
God. Her skin flushed, and she struggled to look unimpressed. Julian shouldn’t look that sexy drenched in sweat. He’d shed his sweatpants in favor of shorts, and his long sleeve tee clung to his body like a second skin. He ran his towel over his thick, wavy brown hair and then slung it over his shoulder as he shot her a lazy grin. “I see you’ve got that notebook with you again.”
“Well, I’m a writer so…”
He shrugged. “Just wondered if maybe you miss out on things when your nose is stuck in it. You could always watch the practice and then ask me to clarify anything later.”
Were there laser beams of straight-up hostility shooting from her eyes? Because it one hundred percent felt like it as she narrowed her gaze on Julian, stupid, perfectly pretty Julian with a dumb dimple on his left stubbly, equally stupid, marble-cut cheek.
He raised his hands in front of him, that dimple deepening. “Or maybe not. You do you.”
“Don’t mess with my method. I don’t tell you how to play tennis, so don’t tell me how to write,” she quipped.
“Speaking of writing,” he said, “I did some internet digging myself and found out about your bestseller. Nineteen is pretty impressive.”
Amalie’s gaze flicked downward. “Yeah, well, not something I like to talk about. I did a lot of stupid things back then.”
“You were a kid. I did some punk-ass things at nineteen, too. Still do today.”
“Yeah, but did you pack up and move to New York with your fiancé, Maxwell the third?” Amalie volleyed, her words devoid of emotion.
Julian staggered backward a bit. The surprise written across his face was enough to tip up the corners of Amalie’s lips. She wasn’t proud that she’d been engaged to Maxwell the third, given his general unpleasantness, but at least it got Julian off the topic of her failure. For now. That damn book was synonymous with just how stupid she’d been, at how much she’d lost.
“I know we live in Georgia, but damn, that’s a little young to get engaged, ain’t it?” Julian rubbed the back of his neck, studying her.
Amalie resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. “Yes, it’s young, but some people do find the love of their life at nineteen.”
“Did you?” Julian raised an eyebrow.
Amalie flashed her ringless left hand. “Does it look like it?”
Julian glanced at the darkening clouds, then back to Amalie. “Well, the guy was obviously an asshole.”
Amalie stood, clutching her notebook to her chest, ever her lifeline. “What makes you think he was an asshole? I mean, you’re right, but just curious, though.”
Julian shook his head, his eyes on the court as a tiny smile curled his lips.
“So, you’re just gonna keep that one to yourself, huh?” she asked.
“I guess so.” After a pause, he looked around the court. Paul was the only other person left, and he stood near the gate, every once in a while opening it and peering out. Amalie assumed he had a hot date or something with the tension that seemed to run through the old man’s body. Paul wasn’t one to be nervous about anything. Finally, Julian said, “You wanna go grab a bite to eat?”
Amalie choked on her own spit. The shock of his question was too much, and she inhaled wrong and, well, there went that, along with big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, leaving mascara in their wake.
Julian’s hand was warm and solid as it landed on her back. She wanted to say, “Yep, don’t mind me. I do this all the time.” Which wasn’t a lie, either.
Finally, after getting it together, she took in a very careful, deep breath, totally noticing that Julian had moved closer and that his hand was still on her back. The heat of his body tempted her to lean into it, to let it fully envelop her.
She shook her head, her hands fidgeting around her journal. “I’m okay,” she said, her voice a little croaky. She was totally not okay.
“You’re that excited to hang out with me, rich girl? If I knew it would render you speechless, I would’ve hit you up sooner.”
Amalie opened her mouth to speak, but Julian reached out a finger, lightly pressing it against her lips, something that, no matter how many times it was done, still made her feel like she’d stepped on a livewire. She willed away the blush creeping up her neck, imagining the mockery Julian would put her through if he saw it. He already walked around with a massive ego; he didn’t need more ammunition.
“Don’t even think about making any smart-aleck comments.” He quirked a brow to punctuate his thoughts as he slowly moved his finger away from her mouth.
Amalie fought the urge to lick her lips, to taste where his touch had been. “I wasn’t going to say anything remotely smart-aleck at all,” she responded.
Julian chuckled. “Yeah right. Now come on, let’s go and—” He paused, his hands moving for the edge of the notebook Amalie cradled protectively to her chest.
“Um, excuse me, are you trying to touch my boob? Again?” Her voice went a little shriller than intended as she smacked his hand away.
Julian didn’t move his hand, just held tighter to the corner of the notebook. “I’m not trying to touch your boob. I wasn’t trying to touch it at the gym either. You made me fall, I can’t help where my hands went. Jesus.”
“Yeah, you better call on Jesus.” She tugged the notebook a little harder. Julian was stronger than she gave him credit for.
“Give me your notebook, Amalie. I think you should let me hold it or lock it away somewhere for the next hour or two. You know, so you can actually experience life instead of just writing it down.” He leaned down, a cocky grin curling his lips. “I swear I’m not trying to touch your boob, princess. If I wanted to, I’d have already done it by now.”
She reared her head back, the notebook temporarily forgotten. “So, what, you’d just reach out and grab my boob, is that it? I knew you were a pig, but I had no idea the level.” She wrinkled her nose in absolute disgust.
A growl emitted from Julian’s throat. “God, woman, you frustrate the hell out of me. No, I wouldn’t just grab it. I’d ask permission first, of course.” Was he sweating even more than before? It looked like some newly formed perspiration had cropped up around his hairline, along with the slightest tinge of pink in his cheeks.
“Seriously?” she asked, her eyes watering as she giggled. “So, you’d be all, ‘Hey, Amalie, can I touch y
our boob?’ Suave.”
Julian’s entire face lit up, and until then, she hadn’t realized just how much he’d been hiding in the shadows.
“Something like that,” he said. “But I’d say pretty please, of course. I do have some manners.” He gave her a sexy little wink that sent the most adorable crinkles out from his eyes, but she ignored all of that. Because she didn’t like him. At all.
Amalie wiped away the tears that had escaped the corners of her eyes, knowing her eye makeup was thoroughly ruined for the day.
“You want the notebook?” she asked, moving it a safer distance from her body.
Julian nodded. “May I?”
She drew the notebook back to her chest, an eyebrow raised. “Boob or notebook?”
Julian laughed, the blush on his cheeks deepening. “Notebook.” His words said one thing, but that dark, scorching gaze of his said something totally different.
Amalie couldn’t decide whether to be angry or flattered, although the way her body flooded with warmth and her fingers ached with the need to touch, she was pretty sure which emotion dominated. She blamed it on her dry spell that rivaled the Sahara.
The squeak of the gate swinging open had them both turning around, gaze traveling to where Paul stood. A stunning woman who looked to be in her sixties stood next to him, chatting.
“Does Paul have a date?” Amalie asked. “If so, she’s way out of his league.”
“Hell no, he doesn’t have a date, because that woman is my mom.”
And with that, Julian took off, his long stride taking no time to eat up the distance between him and Paul—and his mother.
Chapter Nine
Julian
“Julian! I didn’t teach you to be rude. Now bring that beautiful young lady over here right this instant and stop acting like a barbarian. You were raised better than that.”
Julian turned around, jerking his chin at said beautiful redhead. “You coming, princess?” he asked, trying his damnedest to keep it together. He and his mom didn’t have any sort of beef with each other…it was just… “I haven’t seen you since Christmas,” he said.
Painting the Lines: A Hot Romantic Comedy (Ace of Hearts Book 1) Page 7
