Chapter 6 Ellie
SIX
Ellie
I stood in front of my closet, staring at the mess of clothes I'd already tried on and discarded. This shouldn't be that freaking complicated. It was just coffee, nothing more.
Except my treacherous mind had other plans.
That ridiculous, infuriating, completely unplanned kiss played on repeat in my head, no matter how hard I tried to scrub it out.
My brain had gone fully rogue, conjuring up his voice saying things that had nothing to do with coffee orders, replaying the feel of his hands, the way he'd looked at me right before—
Stop.
I tore off the too-tight jeans I'd planned to wear and let out a frustrated sigh.
This was insane. In a decision that definitely sounded smarter in theory, I was inviting Sawyer James into my life for PR.
For optics. For…whatever people say when they're making objectively terrible decisions and pretending they're strategic.
Because this wasn't even a real date—not even a fake date yet.
It was just two people, mutually faking normalcy in a public place with overpriced caffeine and the looming threat of paparazzi.
It wasn't like we'd had some sweeping, romantic meet-cute—unless kissing as a distraction while a gun-wielding psychopath glared at us counted as cute.
Not exactly the kind of story you'd want to tell your grandkids.
So why was I obsessing over this?
Red flags lit up my brain even just thinking about any kind of relationship, fake or otherwise.
I'd been here before. People didn't fall for me—not the whole, messy, tired version.
They liked the idea of Ellie Miles. Harold had loved it—right up until he realized I came with inconvenient things like needs and opinions.
I walked back to my closet and spotted a sundress, all bright and cheerful.
Because logic had clearly left the building, some traitorous part of my brain went oh, pretty—even though it was fifty degrees outside.
I put it on, took one look in the mirror, and immediately started wrestling my way back out of it while cursing my entire existence.
After a few more rounds of self-inflicted torture, I finally landed on dark, not-too-tight jeans, an oversized wool coat, and a messy bun that looked like I hadn't tried too hard—even though I absolutely had.
It was fine. Totally fine.
An hour later, I stepped out of my San Francisco home, and instantly, the cameras started clicking like damn buzzing insects.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
“Ellie, over here!”
“Ellie! Are you dating Sawyer James?”
“Ellie, how’s the arm? Are you ready for the show coming up?”
I kept my head down, sunglasses on, my smile practiced and polite. My security team moved in instinctively, a quiet, steady shield.
“Let’s keep moving,” one of my security guards said.
The SUV door opened, and I slid in.
“Coffee shop’s prepped. Swept this morning. Owner’s good with it. Private booth in the back. No press allowed inside.”
I nodded. “Perfect. Thank you.”
It was ridiculous, really, but this was my life now. Fame came with security and a media playbook. If I wanted a moment to breathe? That came with a team of two and a blacked-out SUV.
For some reason, I didn’t mind it all today. Something stupid and a little hopeful stirred in me that had nothing to do with the cameras.
We pulled up behind the coffee shop, a tucked-away spot nestled between a row of designer boutiques—the kind of place that sold overpriced lavender lattes and had leather armchairs no one actually sat in.
It was supposed to be a private entrance, but somehow, a few paparazzi had still found it. The second I stepped out, the flashing started again.
“Ellie! Who are you meeting? Is it Harold?”
“Ellie, how are you healing after the injury?”
“Are the rumors true?”
I darted inside and let out a breath. When I glanced up, I immediately spotted him leaning against the counter, wearing a flannel over a faded tee and a backwards hat. Sawyer glanced up and grinned like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
And just like that, the outside world faded away.
He pushed off the counter, holding five cups.
“Didn’t know what you wanted, so I got all their sweetest stuff,” he said, lifting the drink carrier like a human coffee menu. “All with enough sugar to bring back the dead. If you don’t like them, I can get you something else.”
I let out a laugh that surprised even me—a real one. Rachel always said the right guy would make me laugh when I least expected it. I always figured she meant after some time into a healthy relationship, not ten seconds into a fake one, but this guy was always surprising me, apparently.
A staff member appeared and led us past a curtain near the back to a private booth. It was small and circular, with plush cushions and enough privacy so no one could easily eavesdrop or snap a photo for this initial conversation.
Sawyer slid in first, and I sat across from him.
“Pick your poison.” He slid the cups toward me.
When our fingers brushed for half a second, my stomach decided to perform a little pirouette.
“This one has whipped cream and what I'm pretty sure is edible glitter," he said, squinting at it. “I didn’t even know coffee could sparkle.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You got me glitter coffee?”
“I mean, I figured you deserved options…and glitter, obviously.”
I picked it up and took a sip. It was sweet, indulgent, and ridiculous. “Okay...why is this actually really good?”
He grinned and just stared at me for a moment before speaking.
“I feel like I should say something smooth right now,” he said, leaning forward, “but all I can think about is how your coat makes you look like a very fashionable detective, like you’re about to solve a mystery and drop an album all in the same day.
” His eyes went wide, and he ran a hand down his face.
“That was stupid. Let’s pretend I didn’t say that. ”
I bit back a smile. “I’ll have you know, this detective has excellent taste.”
“Oh, no doubt.” He gave me a shy smirk. “I mean, you asked to have coffee with me. Clearly impeccable judgment, if I do say so myself.”
I rolled my eyes and stirred my drink. “Are you always this charming?”
He tilted his head. “Define always.”
“Like, is this an everyday thing? Or is it reserved for pop stars you pretend date on Sunday mornings?”
He grinned. “Only for you, Miles.”
“So…fake dating…”
Sawyer rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and watched me with annoyingly readable eyes. “I’m still in if you are.”
I dropped my voice, glancing toward the counter, even though I knew no one could hear us. “You really don’t have any other stipulations?”
“Nope. I’m a delight. No crazy terms.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Seriously.”
“I am serious,” he said, grinning like he wasn’t. “But fine. You want rules?”
“Maybe just one. An end date?”
He cocked his head. “Sure, if that makes you feel better.”
“Well, I don’t want to take over your whole life.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll survive, but I get it. Having a finish line makes it less…complicated.”
“Exactly.”
“So, how long does this media charade need to live to feel convincing but not, you know, spiral into joint holiday cards and matching dog sweaters?”
“Aww, you’ve thought about our future dogs?” I teased.
He tugged at his shirt. “Don’t judge. I look great in plaid.”
I tried not to smile and failed. “Okay, well, you’ve got football, obviously.”
He stretched one arm across the back of the booth. “Yeah. If we make it deep, I’m booked through late January, maybe early February. You?”
“Tour ends around the same time.” I tapped my nails against the cup. “We’ll both be on the go until then.”
“So the media blitz will be going on while we are both busy. We’ll need to be seen together when we can manage, or people will think we’re faking it.”
I arched a brow.
He grinned. “Well, more than we already are.”
I laughed under my breath. “Okay, so we start laying it on thick soon. Then what? Run the course until the Super Bowl?”
He hesitated for a moment. “Let’s say end of March? Gives us time to be in love and then gracefully implode before allergy season makes me all miserable and puffy.”
“Wow. You’ve really got the whole heartbreak arc mapped out. Okay. End of March.”
“Should we write this down?” he asked. “For legal purposes, of course.”
I blinked. “Like a contract?”
“Exactly.” He reached for a napkin. “Time to make it binding.”
“Do you need a pen?”
He patted down his pockets and held up two empty hands. “I have charm and a wild imagination. Sadly, no ink.”
“Here.” I chuckled, pulling a pen from my bag and handing it to him. “This is insane.”
“Absolutely, and yet, I’ve never taken a napkin contract more seriously.”
After a moment, he pushed it toward me.
Across the top, in all caps: OFFICIAL CONTRACT with a doodle of a broken heart and a dramatic underline.
I, Sawyer Eugene James, solemnly and enthusiastically agree to enter this entirely legally binding, fake dating arrangement with the stunning Ellie Miles, until the mutually agreed-upon date of March 31st.
Signed,
Sawyer James
“Eugene?” I chuckled.
“Hey, it was my grandpa’s name. Don’t judge.”
I laughed and took the pen, signing underneath his name and sliding it back. He carefully folded it and then tucked it into his wallet.
He met my gaze. “Well…guess we’re official.”
I nodded. “Yep. Signed and even napkin sealed.”
“So,” he rested his arms on the table, “how have you been?”
I looked down, fingers toying with my coffee. “I’m good.”
“Not your go-to media answer. Give me the real one.”
I peered up at him and hesitated—not because I didn’t want to talk, but because most people didn’t ask for the real answer.
Something about the way he said it, with no pressure, no angle, made it feel safe.
The same steady warmth I’d heard in his voice last night was written all over his face now.
Somehow, that made it easier to talk to him.
“Honestly?”
He nodded.