Always, Ella Read online

  Also by Sofia Sawyer

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  About Always, Ella

  How far would you go to save your dream?

  When her relationship advice blog accidentally goes viral, aspiring writer Elena Lucia lands a book deal that launches her career. But to make a bigger splash at the book launch, the publisher expects her to reveal the identity of the perfect boyfriend referenced in her posts. Problem is: that guy doesn’t exist. Torn between coming clean or continuing to support her loyal readers, she reluctantly accepts help from her childhood frenemy to stop her career from going up in flames.

  After traveling for years to grow his business, Jackson St. Julien is back home for an extended break. When he discovers Elena—his sister’s best friend—is in a jam, he offers to step in as her doting boyfriend. He isn’t surprised that Elena’s guard is up. While he’d always tried to boost her self-confidence growing up, she’d misread it as a personal attack. Maybe this facade is the perfect chance to finally set the record straight and repair their friendship.

  But as lines blur between what’s acting and what’s real, their frenemy status drifts into uncharted territories.

  Can their love weather the storm?

  Want to see the places that inspired the setting for this story? Download my map of Charleston here to get a look at all the highlights!

  Copyright © 2020 by Sofia Sawyer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  * * *

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Printed in the United States

  First Printing, 2020

  ISBN for Paperback: 978-1-7332090-2-1

  * * *

  Editor: Jen Graybeal Editing Services

  Proofreader: Salt & Sage Books

  Cover Design: Qamber Designs and Media

  Contents

  1. Elena

  2. Elena

  3. Elena

  4. Jackson

  5. Elena

  6. Jackson

  7. Elena

  8. Jackson

  9. Elena

  10. Elena

  11. Jackson

  12. Elena

  13. Brittany

  14. Jackson

  15. Elena

  16. Elena

  17. Jackson

  18. Elena

  19. Jackson

  20. Elena

  21. Elena

  22. Jackson

  23. Jackson

  24. Elena

  25. Jackson

  26. Elena

  27. Jackson

  28. Elena

  29. Elena

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  To anyone who’s felt they couldn’t be themselves. I hope you find the courage to show the world all the amazing things you have to offer.

  Always, Ella

  Sofia Sawyer

  1

  Elena

  Elena Lucia watched as the train wreck unfolded, weeks’ worth of hard work slowly burning up car by car. She sat at the conference table with a stiff smile, eye twitching in irritation, while her work nemesis derailed her client pitch in one fell swoop. Brittany, smiled broadly as she made her final point, convincing the men sitting across from them to consider a new direction for their advertising campaign.

  What’s it say in the professional etiquette manuals about slapping your coworker in the middle of a meeting?

  Of course, the clients would listen to Brittany Hale, as if she had the answers to all their problems. The holder of the mysterious silver bullet they’d been looking for. She was one of them, after all. A Southern belle through and through, a voice as sweet as the tea they served. Cute as a button with her silky blonde waves and pastel dress that flared at the knee. She could almost pass for a Stepford wife, had Elena not known her for the snake that she was.

  Brittany was a junior copywriter working under Elena and was supposed to be observing this pitch. Just observing. Learning the ropes. But in her usual fashion, she came to the meeting with a trick up her sleeve. Her tactics had been more subtle these last few months, but today she took the cake. She didn’t come to this meeting with side quips and “helpful” suggestions. Oh, no. She came with a fully formed pitch, ready to take this client by force.

  However, she did it with manners that would make her mama proud. She didn’t shoot down Elena’s pitch outright—a pitch Elena had spent weeks agonizing over every single detail—but she did it in an undermining way and a not-so-subtle “nice fucking try, loser” tone.

  And there they had it. Again. Brittany was everything that Elena could never be. As a transplant from the Northeast, it was near impossible to wiggle her way into the inner circle of the born and bred Charlestonians, even after twenty years. Sure, the beautiful southern city was very metropolitan with people from all over and a booming tourist industry. But business was about relationships. Around here, if your parents didn’t go to grade school together, you weren’t part of the “in” crowd.

  Elena realized she was now extraneous as she watched her clients smile at Brittany with entranced nods. Their minds were made up. The partnership was no longer hers. And all the insecurities she’d felt since she first arrived in South Carolina as an impressionable ten-year-old came rushing back.

  She wasn’t enough. Never would be.

  The thought was confirmed the second Brittany shook the men’s hands, sealing the deal. She looked Elena up and down smugly as she walked the gentlemen through the posh lobby and out to the bustling streets of downtown. Feeling defeated, Elena stopped by her desk and stuffed her laptop into her oversized purse so she could make her own quick escape. There was nothing more for her to do at work today now that her clients had chosen their lead writer.

  Elena pushed through the advertising firm’s front doors and stepped out to East Bay Street, the warm air thawing her after sitting in the freezing office all day. She slipped off her cardigan and tossed it into her purse, taking a moment to enjoy the fresh air laced with scents from all the amazing restaurants lining the quaint, historic roads. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, conjuring up images of world-famous fried chicken and a glass of wine while sitting across from Brad.

  Brad. He’ll make this better.

  Adjusting the heavy purse on her shoulder, she set out to Brad’s apartment a few blocks away. The early evening sun washed the cobblestone roads and colorful buildings in a golden glow. Elena hadn’t expected to wrap up the meeting this early, but it was just as well. Another three minutes in the room with Brittany, and she would have screamed. The clients had said they wanted something "distinctive” in the discovery calls, so Elena had poured her heart into writing their upcoming advertising copy.

  Stupid.

  Of course, they nixed it and agreed to a knock-off of what their competitors were doing. How could they not see through Brittany’s copycat version? It was insulting and exhausting.

  The sweet scent of confederate jasmine enveloped Elena as she rounded the corner, briefly pulling her from her sour mood. Spring in Charleston was always her favorite, and the soothing smells would normally have raised her spirits, but it was hard getting past another letdown. This dis
appointment was eating her alive.

  A quiet night with Brad was just what Elena needed. A bright spot in her crappy day. She would say to him—very dramatically, of course—"They sucked my creative mojo dry." And Brad would tell her it was their loss.

  She hustled down a side alley, careful to not catch her heel on the uneven stones like she'd done one too many times before and turned onto his street. A sense of relief washed over her as his house came into view.

  Elena trudged up the historic Georgian-styled home's humidity-warped steps and used a copy of his key to let herself into the converted upstairs apartment. She paused in the doorway to admire the man in front of her—the man she was hopelessly in love with.

  But she couldn't do that. Not now.

  Not while his head was between another woman’s legs.

  She stood in shock, the keys to the apartment slipping from her fingers. Her boyfriend, completely oblivious she was there, continued to lick the woman with all the gusto he could manage. The girl—a perfect, tiny blonde thing—was sprawled out on the table with her skirt to her hips. One pert breast fell freely from the top of her shirt. Her eyes were closed with lazy passion, and her lips parted, allowing the blissful moans to escape.

  After a speechless moment, Elena found her voice. "What the hell?” she screamed.

  Brad shot up in surprise, his mouth still glistening from things she didn't want to think about. The woman, who looked no older than her early twenties, scrambled off the table and covered herself.

  "Who the hell is she?" the girl asked as if she had every right to be angry.

  "I'm his girlfriend."

  "No one," he answered simultaneously while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and straightening his button-up.

  "No one? No one! We've been together for two years." Elena snatched the keys from the floor and threw them at him like a pitcher for the Riverdogs. "Do you often give your key to strangers? Do you tell them you want them to move in when their lease is up in a few months? Or do you just go down on them and send them on their way?"

  "A girlfriend, Brad?" the blonde screeched and slapped him before pushing past Elena and toward the front door.

  Elena stared at Brad. She was reeling, her heart fracturing into painful shards, cutting her deep. Yet, he stared back without an ounce of remorse in his eyes.

  “We're done," Elena stated as evenly as she could, fighting the quiver in her throat.

  "Don't be like that," he pleaded, his face red, most likely from the heat of passion rather than guilt. "It was just one time. We can work past that."

  "No, it wasn't!" the girl screamed from the stairs, which only transformed Elena’s hurt into rage.

  Heat warmed Elena’s skin, and her nostrils flared as she tried to keep herself from spinning out. "Goodbye." She whispered, barely believing she said it.

  How could so much go so wrong so quickly?

  She spun on her heel⁠—fighting the urge to cry, scream, and plead⁠—and left his apartment with as much dignity as she could muster. She turned down the next street, and once safely out of view, she let the tears fall. Two knives had been twisted in her back today, and it hurt like hell.

  Wow. Ugly crying in public. This is a new low, even for me.

  She wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm, not caring how smudged her mascara was. What was she supposed to do now? The future she had been planning for was suddenly gone, leaving a gaping void.

  They were supposed to move in together. She had already bookmarked a bunch of cute stuff online to transform his bachelor pad into a home they could share. To show him how much better life could be once they were together. She wanted him to see how happy he’d be coming home to her each night.

  Elena was almost certain that was the next step before he was going to propose. She hadn’t gone and made a vision board or anything, but she couldn’t help her mind from considering what life with Brad would look like. On more than one occasion, she’d stopped and admired the gowns in bridal shop windows she’d walk by on the way to work, mentally noting the styles she preferred.

  God, I’m going to die alone, she thought as she zoomed through the streets of downtown, the world a blur around her.

  Elena was angry. Broken. Confused.

  She could call her mom, but she didn’t feel like being coddled. She could go to her best friend’s place but wasn't ready for over-the-top, loyal angst.

  She needed time to process. Make sense of it all. Her life had taken a jarring turn, and she wasn’t sure what to do next.

  Almost without realizing it she headed up the stairs to her small apartment, shaving off a few minutes from her usual twenty-minute stroll. It was small. Simple. Way more expensive than it needed to be—thanks to the influx of people moving to Charleston these last few years—but it was nice. Maybe a little creaky in some areas. Likely haunted. But it was hers. A safe place filled with all her favorite things: books, fluffy blankets, and her lovable golden retriever, Marley.

  Dropping her keys on the side table and giving her dog a quick pat, she went straight to the photos of her and Brad sitting on the media center. Elena pulled the pictures from their frames, ripped them in tiny pieces, and tossed them into the fireplace along with a lit match. She poured herself a glass of red wine and sipped it while watching the flames lick up the last of the pictures—the shards of a broken dream. And although cathartic, she still felt unsettled.

  She wanted to throw things. Break things. She needed a release but was paralyzed by the sinking feeling deep inside. What did she do wrong? How could she have been more? Better?

  How could I have been so stupid to think I was enough?

  The large pine floors creaked loudly as she paced her living room. Anxiety bubbled in her stomach, mixing with the burning acidity from the wine. She shook her arms to relieve the tension, but nothing eased the sharp pain in her heart.

  How did I miss all the signs? Was he good at hiding things, or was I so stupidly in love that I ignored them?

  Love really was blind. Elena prided herself on her smarts, but today had her wondering if the joke was on her. She’d worked so hard and was one-upped by a junior copywriter. She’d devoted herself to Brad and the life they had planned to share, only to be replaced by someone else.

  Maybe it wasn’t that he had cheated that stung so much but rather that he felt so confident they could work through it. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a plea for forgiveness. It was more like a command. An expectation. Like it was his right to cheat, and she’d just better deal with it.

  Did he really value me so little?

  Elena gulped down the rest of her wine and picked up the bottle, a slight tremor to her hand as she poured. It had been a while since she’d had her heart broken like this, she forgot how bad it physically felt. She took another sip of wine, trying to push past the clenching of her stomach and the tightness in her chest. She needed a way to make sense of everything that had happened.

  Elena scanned the room. Her laptop sat idly on the table.

  Of course.

  Putting fingers to keyboard and letting her stream of consciousness take over always made a dark day seem less grim, and always gave her some clarity to her feelings. And sometimes, if she was lucky, an action plan, too. It had worked for her while growing up when she felt like an outcast all those years. And it sure as hell was going to help now.

  I hope.

  She had fallen in love with writing when her mother gave her her first journal. Her mother, a children’s therapist, had seen Elena’s struggle while adjusting to life in the South. But rather than pry for details, she placed the journal on Elena’s nightstand and let her work it out herself.

  Writing served as both therapy and an escape. And right now, being anywhere but here was appealing.

  Fueled by emotions, she flopped onto the couch and pulled her computer into her lap. Marley hopped up and rested her warm body against Elena’s leg, providing the kind of comfort only a dog can give.

&
nbsp; She let out a breath and pulled up her web browser as she decided how she wanted to tackle it. Did she just need to vent? Should she write a letter to Brad about how he hurt her? Or maybe create a ten-step action plan for how to get over life’s disappointment? A pep talk?

  A pep talk. Advice. “Dear Abby.”

  “Yessss,” she whispered under her breath as she pulled up a blog site. “No one really uses this anymore anyway, right?” she asked Marley, who looked up with her big brown eyes. “Social media made these online journals obsolete now that everyone airs their dirty laundry on Facebook.” She snorted and took a big gulp of wine.

  She signed up and made a few adjustments to her account before she pulled up a new post. She stared at the white space, the cursor blinking, taunting her to stop stalling. With the Dear Abby advice column still in mind, she put her fingers to the keyboard.

  Dear⁠—

  She paused. Dear who? She couldn’t write to herself. That was weird.

  Looking at it critically, she had to be the “Abby," a person who wasn’t involved but eager to help. Someone to be objective. They had to provide tough love with a compassionate flair. She had to be a better, stronger version of herself to offer the advice she really needed.