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He puffed up, straightened his broad shoulders, and gave her a scalding once-over. “Yeah, I’m shaking in my boots. Listen, I’ll have you know that you’re looking at a US Open contender.” He leveled her with a hard glare, daring her to argue.
Interest piqued, Amalie remained in place, her finger falling away. “You’rea tennis player?” she asked through gritted teeth while mentally berating herself for continuing this conversation.
Julian paused a beat too long before answering with a shrug. “You could say that.”
“Okay…” Amalie stretched the two-syllable word into three and cocked her brow as if to silently say,I call bullshit.
Julian blinked, but his gaze was still hazy as he responded with a surprising amount of vindication in his voice. “Actually, I’m going to qualify for the US Open.” His eyes widened, as if his words were a revelation to him as well.
Interesting. Amalie’s nails tapped the bar in an easy rhythm as she assessed him. “So I gather you used to play?” She almost mentioned his fading physique, but he was being oddly civil now, and she feared an observation like that would bring out the pig in him,again.
Julian averted his gaze, studying his hands, which now gripped the edge of the bar. He gave her a tight nod, then he seemed to slowly deflate. “I used to be the best. Before it all went to shit. Now I’m just a has-been, stuck selling pharmaceuticals day after day. I had everything I ever wanted right here”—Julian lifted a hand, palm open, his stare searing into his own flesh—“then I let it all slip away.”
It was a surprisingly coherent statement, one that echoed and mirrored things Amalie felt about her own life. But before she could dwell on it, electricity hummed in her veins, the wheels in her head spinning wildly.
A tiny spark of sunlight filtered through the cracks of the prison that had slowly become her life as an idea quickly formed. Ever since New Year’s Eve, she’d been mulling over goals, and writing a book was at the top of her list—this was perfect. The threat of having to work for her father receded as she pulled in a deep breath and let the realization settle over her bones.Thiscould be her next hit, a novel that chronicled the rise to the top of a former tennis great. Hadn’t her agent, Stella, recently hinted that sports romances were making a comeback? Besides, everyone loves a good underdog story. She could see the headlines now:Washed-Up Tennis Player Makes Run for US Open.
What were the odds that he played the only sport she knew even a little bit about?
Right now, it didn’t matter that she hated tennis. It didn’t matter that her father always rubbed it in her face that her older sister, Simone, was such a great player. It didn’t matter that he’d tried to force Amalie to take lessons even though her instructor was the meanest person on the planet and cut her down every time she made a mistake
Her past with tennis was exactly that:the past. An opportunity had presented itself, and she was hellbent on taking it. Stella had been adamant that Amalie write something “real and honest,” something more along the lines of her debut,Breaking the Fall,the story that shot her into the next-big-thing stratosphere at the ripe age of nineteen. Of course, Amalie didn’t want to let her down. Stella Frenette of Frenette Literary had been a hard win after Amalie lost her first agent for being a little twit high on fame and her own wealth. She’d bailed on so many commitments and haggled over stuff so stupid it made film and book people walk away. Yeah, film—that’s how close she’d been to the big time.
Somewhere along the way, Amalie also lost the gift of natural storytelling. Every time she set pen to paper or fingers to keys, it felt forced. Her words read likeSee Jane run. See Jane jump. See Jane suck at writing.
Her last two novels fell flat because the characters weren’t realistic. To fix the problem, Stella suggested Amalie study real people. Her bestseller had centered around a heroine based on none other than her sister, Simone. The intimate knowledge shared by sisters had given Amalie the means to create a three-dimensional character readers adored, which was really no surprise. Who didn’t love Simone?
Amalie’s follow-up books hadn’t had that benefit and suffered because of it. She struggled to craft characters who leapt off the page, and she had no doubt the reason was because, other than Ro, she hadn’t let anyone get close. Not even her ex-fiancé, Maxwell. Not really. Amalie failed at human connection because people broke hearts, and her heart already had enough cracks. It couldn’t survive another quake.
She cringed as she thought of her early writing days, trying to reconcile that person with who she was now. Sadly, though she was ready to write again, the human connection thing was still a problem. But maybe Fate had given her a workaround. Readers—and Stella as well—would love that this novel was based on a real tennis player—one who was gorgeous and, with some training, would have muscles popping by the time the tournament rolled around. It would be so easy to capitalize on his looks and to even use the momentum of his rise to the top for promotion of the book.
She couldn’t let fear get in the way of her dream this time. She just needed to get this Julian fellow to the US Open.
Just as Amalie was about to open her mouth, Julian slumped over the bar, passed out cold. The bartender dipped his head and smiled. “From what I hear, he does this all the time. He’s pretty popular with the ladies, so usually he’s already secured one or two to go home with. Looks like he didn’t get that far with you.” He had the audacity to smirk.
“Hard to imagine that he’s popular with the ladies when he acts like a Neanderthal.”
Bryan leaned forward on the bar conspiratorially, his voice hushed. “He was different tonight. Besides, I think you got under his skin because you called his bullshit. But hey, that’s just my opinion.”
Amalie sized up the situationandJulian, her mind calculating a million possibilities at once. “Was he really a great tennis player?” she asked Bryan, needing to know for sure before she made her next decision.
Bryan nodded. “Hell yeah. You never heard of Julian Smoke? They called him ‘The Smoke’ in college because he was a beast. He was even pegged as the next tennis great of his generation.”
Amalie studied Julian’s face, willing herself to remember him from one of her father’s endless tennis ramblings. “What happened?” she asked, bringing her gaze back to the bartender.
“That’s his story to tell. You’ll have to ask him.”
Amalie drummed her fingers on the smooth surface of the bar one last time before releasing a deep breath and making a decision she was sure she’d regret. “Help me get him to my car, will ya?”
