I blinked. “Yeah, you remember?”
“Unfortunately, I remember everything from that night. Kind of hard to forget.”
“Yeah. How are you doing, really? You healed up okay?”
“Yeah. The bullet only grazed me, so it didn’t take long to recover. I took some time off tour, but my first concert back is in a couple of weeks.”
“Can I come to a show?” I asked, almost without thinking.
“Um…sure? If you want to.”
“Want to? I’d love to. I’m gonna go check for tickets right now.” I placed my phone on speaker and Googled her tour dates.
“Don’t. I’ll get you some tickets.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, of course,” she replied. “Just let me know which show.”
“Well…thanks. That’d be nice. My last experience was a little tainted. I’d love a second go.” A yawn escaped me that I couldn’t stop.
“I should probably go to bed, and it sounds like you should too. I’ll text you where to meet me tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Sounds good. I’ll see ya at eleven.”
“Goodnight, Sawyer.”
“Goodnight, Ellie.”
The line went dead.
But for the first time in a while, I felt alive.
SIX
Ellie
I stoodin 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, romanticmeet-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 wentoh, 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.
