Page 13 of He Falls First

So I don’t know what compels me, then, to move toward him. As I do it, Matt nearly collapses into a puddle of relief, it seems like. But Hendrix’s expression remains unchanged, his broad hand outstretched to me like he never doubted that I would come.

I’m doing this for Matt, I tell myself. Not for Hendrix. Definitely not for the strange thrill that zips through my veins at the thought of being pulled to him.

I put my right hand in Hendrix’s, but he switches it up, grabbing the left one instead and squeezing it behind his back as he pulls me close. To hide that I’m not wearing an engagement ring, maybe?

He’s good at this, I’ll give him that. He maintains an impenetrable calm, as if announcing fake engagements is an everyday occurrence for him. But up close, I catch it—the flicker of tension in his jaw, the slightest crease between those sharp green eyes. From this angle, pulled in close and looking up at him, I can see how tightly he’s holding his face. The man’s got quite the sharp jawline already, and right now, it looks like it could slice through stone. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and it tells me he’s not as unflappable as he’d like us all to believe.

I let my head tip ever so slightly against his shoulder, as if I belong there. It’s all too easy to imagine what it would feel like if this were real—if the heat radiating from his body were meant for me, and not part of some bizarre scheme. It’s, well, kind of exhilarating.

My brain’s doing somersaults while Mr. Cromwell raises a thinning eyebrow. “Engaged, you say?”

I can feel Hendrix’s eyes on me. It’s up to me to answer, isn’t it? I’m telling Mr. Cromwell if we’re engaged and, at the same time, telling Hendrix whether or not I agree to play along with his bizarre game.

I can also feel Matt’s stare boring holes into the side of my head, willing me to play along. His eyes scream ‘S.O.S.,’ like he’s silently mouthing, ‘Please, for the love of stock options and free coffee, say yes!’

Remembering what Matt said about Hendrix needing my help to look like a friendly guy, I wonder: Is this some sort of test? An attempt to gauge just how far I’ll go to step up to the demands of this job?

All I know is, I need to find out what’s cooking in that brain of his.

“Yes,” I say, a rush of nervous wind blowing out with my breath. “We’re engaged.”

My palms are sweating, and there’s this nervous tapping of my foot that’s going a mile a minute—a dead giveaway if anyone cared to look down. But they don’t, because my head is still resting on Hendrix’s shoulder, and apparently, we’re the picture of premarital bliss.

Mr. Cromwell smiles at Hendrix as if I’m not even there. “Congratulations, son. That’s quite the surprise.”

He shakes Hendrix’s hand with vigor, pulling him away from me as I stand there feeling oddly discarded. For some reason, the “He Falls First” pledge rings in my head and I cross my arms across my chest.

“Actually,” I interject, my voice cutting through the testosterone haze, “there’s a tiny condition still dangling on the engagement.” My stance shifts, feet planted firmly on the ground.

Every eye in the room swivels towards me. Even Cromwell pauses mid-backslap. Hendrix’s gaze locks onto mine, and a flicker of something—surprise? Respect? Indigestion?—flashes across his usually unreadable face.

“See, we’re only blissfully betrothed if Hendrix here can muster up an apology for earlier,” I continue. My tone is light, but my resolve is ironclad. “You know, when he snapped and sent me out of here like I was an errant schoolgirl rather than his partner-to-be.”

Hendrix’s eyebrow lifts and he cocks his head, like he’s trying to see a new side of me for the first time. His mouth opens, then closes. He straightens up, almost imperceptibly, as if my words are pulling him to attention. I can tell he’s wading into unfamiliar waters—apologizing, in public, to someone who isn’t supposed to matter.

That’s right, I tell him silently with a lift of my eyebrows. If I’m going to be your stand-in fiancée, then I’m going to be the kind who gets your respect. Especially in front of other people.

I’m not going to have someone like Harold Cromwell, very recent former head of this company, believing that I let Hendrix push me around.

Mr. Cromwell chuckles. “This one’s got fire in her,” he says.

Hendrix only grunts in response. His eyes are still on me.

Which makes me gulp. I try to stand still, to not let it show that I’m not quite sure of myself, but the longer he looks at me, the more I start to wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

Is he going to apologize or eviscerate me?

Finally, he speaks. “Elizabeth. I’m sorry for the abrupt manner in which I addressed you earlier. It was… uncalled for.”

The words sound deliberate. Careful. Yet there’s a current of sincerity beneath them that makes my heart do a strange little hopscotch.

I nod, trying to limit my smile to a small one. I’m proud of myself for that little victory. It worked out for me, and besides, I’m supposed to be helping Hendrix look like he’s not temperamental, right? He really does look genuinely sorry, and even if it’s an act, it’s exactly the look he needs to show right now.

“Apology accepted,” I declare, nodding once with all the regality of a queen granting clemency. That’s me. Queen Liz.

And somewhere between the lines of our improvised script, I catch the beginning of something new—the part where Hendrix Monroe learns I’m not just someone to use for his image, but a force to be reckoned with.

I squeeze his hand to let him know he’s on the right track, and he squeezes back.

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