Chapter 31 Ellie #2
“It’s good,” Sawyer said. “Renovations are going well. We stayed there for Christmas. Still a few things to fix up over the next couple of weeks, but it’s shaping up to be a solid spot to settle down.”
I smirked. “Full of stories too.”
West’s eyes went wide for a moment before he cleared his throat. “What kind of stories?”
Sawyer shot me a mock-annoyed glance. “Yeah, it’s got a…history.”
West leaned in way too close, voice dropping to mock-serious whisper. “Come on, spill it. What kind of history? Murder? UFO sightings? A family of raccoons running the place?”
Bronx blinked at him. “Something is wrong with you.”
Sawyer shrugged with a grin. “Something went down there a few years back. Ellie and I found a journal from the woman who lived there. Now, she’s acting like a full-on detective trying to figure it out.”
I caught Sawyer’s eye and grinned.
West shifted his weight. “Man, you guys live in a real-life thriller.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to make sure everything’s running smoothly. It was lovely to meet you, Ellie,” West said, turning to Bronx. “Coming with me?”
“If I have to.”
“You do,” he muttered.
We continued to weave through the crowd, the room full of murmurs and clinking glasses.
Glittering NYE centerpieces sparkled on every table—crystal clocks and white orchids.
Everyone seemed eager to talk to us: Sawyer’s old friends and teammates, some curious strangers.
His hand hovered at my waist, sometimes slipping to my hip, sometimes guiding me with a touch so subtle, it should have barely registered—except I felt every second of it.
A woman in pearls caught my eye and launched into a gush about our undeniable chemistry, her voice dripping with admiration and a hint of envy.
Before I could brush it off with a laugh or a joke, Sawyer leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek.
My skin tingled, but I kept my smile wide and steady, playing the part even as a slow, unmistakable unraveling began beneath it all like it did every time he was close.
When it was time to sit, we found our table near the front with West and Bronx. Sawyer pulled out my chair and slid in beside me.
We traded small talk—sports, food, travel, even the damn weather. Sawyer’s eyes never quite settled anywhere for long. Except maybe my mouth. I ignored it.
His hand rested on my thigh and stayed there like a silent claim only the two of us could see.
After a few minutes, a woman in an emerald silk dress stepped onto the stage.
“Good evening, everyone,” she began with a warm smile.
“Happy New Year’s Eve. Thank you so much for being here tonight to support the Level the Field Foundation.
Thanks to your generosity, we’ve brought after-school sports programs to more than forty schools this year, and we’re just getting started. ”
Applause rippled through the room.
“We’re here tonight to celebrate coaches, athletes, donors—everyone who believes in building access and opportunity, one field, one game, one kid at a time.”
The lights dimmed, and a video started playing—kids running drills in gyms, lacing up cleats, hugging their coaches over inspiring music. Voices of parents played in the background, sharing what the program meant to their families. A few tables back, I caught the sound of someone quietly sniffing.
The lights rose, and after a few more announcements, plated dinners were set before us. Throughout the meal, Sawyer’s grip on my leg never loosened—not once.
People stopped by to say hi. I smiled and posed for photos, and his hand shifted from my leg to my side or my arm—always touching, never intrusive, just...there and impossible to block out.
The night floated around us as a soft jazz trio playing a slowed-down version of Auld Lang Syne somewhere off to the side. My glass was never empty—Sawyer’s silent promise in every refill.
Then, the lights dimmed again, and a voice rang out across the ballroom. “Before we move into our auction and headline entertainment,” came the smooth announcement from the stage, “please welcome our event chair, Adam West.”
Sawyer groaned softly. West strolled onstage with a drink in hand, as if he’d been waiting for his entrance cue in a Broadway production.
“Evening, everyone,” he said, grinning. It seemed like the spotlight was his home. “I’ll keep this brief so we can get to the part where we raise lots of money and maybe get a little competitive about it.”
The crowd laughed.
“On this fine New Year’s Eve, we’re auctioning off some once-in-a-lifetime experiences all for a great cause—private chef dinners, signed memorabilia, suite tickets…
And for those of you looking for something really exclusive…
” He paused, letting the anticipation build.
“A dinner date with some of your favorite San Francisco Rebels. That’s right.
One-on-one, real conversation, decent food, and if you play your cards right, maybe a post-dinner game of catch and release. ”
More laughter, this time laced with a few ooos and ahhs.
Sawyer stiffened. “Uh oh.”
West gave a bow, as if delivering the final punchline of a set he’d been practicing in the mirror. “We’ll start the auction off with Jaden Bronx, me, and our very own Sawyer James, who have all graciously agreed to auction themselves off for a good cause.”
Sawyer turned to me, stunned. “I didn’t agree to shit.”
I smirked. “Apparently, you did.”
“I’m going to murder him.”
The applause was too loud to interrupt. Bronx stood, groaning, and headed toward the stage with a resigned smile.
“First up,” the auctioneer announced, “Jaden Bronx!”
The bidding climbed faster than I expected.
A woman in a navy gown raised her hand, then an older woman with a thick diamond bracelet.
A third bidder, calm and disinterested, said a number so casually, you’d think she was ordering lunch and not dropping over a grand for dinner with a man half her age.
I leaned back, sipping my drink. Cool on the outside, spinning like a storm drain on the inside.
Bronx went for a respectable number. Cheers and polite applause followed. Then, West stepped back into the spotlight.
“Oh God,” Sawyer muttered.
West milked every second of it, tossing in a few winks at the bidders. The numbers jumped even higher, the crowd eating it up.
Next to me, Sawyer didn’t react, but I caught the tick in his jaw.
“And finally,” the auctioneer announced, drawing the syllables out like they meant something, “a private dinner with none other than Sawyer James.”
When Sawyer didn’t move, West took the hint.
“He’s a little shy to come on stage tonight, it looks like. Sawyer, raise your hand and let everyone know where you are!”
All polite chatter stopped. Sawyer froze for a moment before waving his hand in the air. I adjusted my dress, crossing my legs, the silky fabric whispering against my skin.
“Let the bidding begin.”
A woman in a blue dress raised her hand with effortless confidence. “Twenty-five hundred.”
A beat later, a sleek blonde lifted her fingers. “Four.”
The blue dress arched a brow. “Five.”
The crowd quieted, the rhythm of bidding falling into a tense, poised dance.
“Six thousand.”
“Sixty-five.”
I knew where this was going. And God, I didn't want her going out with him—didn't want her laughing at his jokes, letting him pay for dinner, maybe letting him walk her home. It made no sense, but it felt like a betrayal of the thing we weren't even calling real.
My fingers curled around the stem of my champagne flute. This was insane. I was insane. We weren't together. I’d made it clear this was temporary, surface-level, an arrangement with an expiration date.
The thought of him sitting across from someone else, giving them that lazy half-smile he'd given me a thousand times—
My stomach twisted.
Sawyer's hand flexed slightly on my thigh. He was calm, still, but not relaxed. I could feel the tension radiating through his palm, the way his jaw had gone tight. He wasn't looking at me, hadn't looked at me since the bidding started.
“Six-five, going once…”
The woman in the blue dress leaned back, confident, giving me a smug little smirk, as if she'd already won.
And something in me snapped.
Maybe it was the champagne or the way she looked at him like he was already hers. Maybe it was the realization I cared—more than I should—and I was so tired of pretending I didn't.
He was no one's but mine to claim.
“Twenty thousand.” The bid slipped out of me, smooth, sure, and loud enough to cut through the silence.
The auctioneer blinked. “I—excuse me?”
I didn’t flinch. “Twenty thousand,” I said again, louder this time.
Heads swiveled. Conversations died mid-sentence. The entire room turned to me—West, Bronx, the blonde, the woman in the blue dress. Everyone stared. Sawyer went perfectly, entirely still.
“What the hell are you doing?” he whispered, low and strained.
“Being generous,” I said lightly. “It’s for a good cause.”
“Ellie…”
The auctioneer recovered. “Twenty thousand going once…”
I smiled, serene and dangerous.
“Going twice…”
Sawyer’s grip on my leg tightened again.
“Sold, to Ellie Miles at table three.”
A wave of polite applause scattered across the room, but I barely heard it. I took a slow sip of champagne and finally turned to him.
Sawyer stared at me, disbelief flickering in his eyes, like I’d rewritten the rules we were supposed to be following.
“What?” I tilted my head, giving him a fake pout. “I didn’t want to share.”
“You are unbelievable,” he murmured.
I leaned in until my lips brushed the shell of his ear. “That’s why you like me.”
He stood abruptly, took my hand, and tugged me out of my seat. The next auction item was already being announced, but I barely registered it. He walked us out of the ballroom as if he couldn’t breathe there anymore.
And I followed—heart racing, heels clicking, champagne still fizzing on my tongue—without a single second of hesitation.