Page 22 of He Falls First

Allison cackles. “This is too good. Okay, so hand holding, that’s gotta happen. Oh, and kissing—open mouth or closed?”

“Um…” My face flames. Hendrix and I definitely should have discussed this.

“You’ll probably have to kiss in public to sell it,” Cora points out gently.

I groan, dropping my head in my hands. “You’re right. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

Allison is ticking things off on her fingers. “Kissing, hand holding, hugging. Ooh, maybe even feeling each other up a little.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“Allison!” I smack her arm, but I’m laughing, too.

Still, the physical aspect makes me uneasy. I feel conflicted. On one hand, I should set boundaries to make sure my relationship with Hendrix remains professional. After all, we’re doing this for appearances only, right? On the other hand, physical affection could be necessary for appearances. And, if I’m being honest, the thought of being intimate with Hendrix quickens my pulse. I’ve always had a thing for powerful men. And those eyes…

I shake my head sharply. I shouldn’t even go there. Getting involved with your boss is a recipe for disaster.

“Maybe I should discuss this with Hendrix,” I say with hesitation, tapping my fingers against my mojito glass.

“Definitely,” Allison says firmly, while Cora nods in agreement. “You need to know where you both stand on this before things get complicated.”

I don’t want to tell her it might already be too late for that. Does that mean I should back out now, before the contract is signed? I pour a sip of my cocktail over my tongue, wishing for a magical solution to make everything crystal clear.

“Exactly!” Cora nods, her sage-like wisdom momentarily overshadowed by the mischievous twinkle in her eye. “But, you know, if Hendrix accidentally trips and his lips land on yours, make sure you document it thoroughly. For legal purposes.”

“Very funny.” I roll my eyes, wishing my racing pulse would take a cue from my sarcasm. It doesn’t. Instead, it thunders on, painting scenarios where Hendrix’s lips—accidentally or not—find mine.

Because despite the risks, despite my better judgment, the truth is I want to feel Hendrix’s touch. Just once.

I drain my drink, avoiding their eyes. “It’s strictly business between us.”

But even as I say it, my mind spins with unanswered questions. Just how far will we have to take this charade? And how far do I want it to go?

I excuse myself to the restroom, needing a moment to think. My mind is a whirlpool of kissing policies and professional footnotes. The ladies’ room is washed in fluorescent light and the scent of cheap soap. And tonight, it features a live show: a twenty-something sobbing into a wad of toilet paper by the sinks.

“Hey,” I say, sidestepping a puddle of questionable origin as I reach for a stack of paper towels. “You need these more than the floor does.”

Her tear-streaked face looks up, gratitude mingling with mascara trails. “Thanks,” she sniffles, taking the offered tissues.

“Bad breakup?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Because let’s face it—bar bathrooms are the amphitheaters of heartache.

“Caught him sending ‘you up?’ texts to his CrossFit instructor,” the girl sobs. It takes a while to get the sentence out, each word punctuated with a honk into the paper towel.

“Ah, the ol’ booty-call betrayal,” I nod sagely. “Classic.”

She stares, either impressed by my deduction skills or simply startled to find someone fluent in the language of lousy love lives.

“You’ve been through this too?” she asks between hiccuping sobs.

“More times than I’d care to admit,” I say wryly, leaning against the cool tile wall. “Never trust a man who can squat more than he can commit.”

A watery chuckle escapes her, and she seems momentarily distracted from her heartbreak. “I’m such a mess.”

“Join the club, honey. We have jackets. They’re waterproof,” I quip. But as she laughs again, something clenches inside me. It’s the familiar tug of empathy, sure, but also a silent vow echoing between my ears.

I don’t ever want to be her again.

It strikes me then how often I’ve ended up crying in bar bathrooms over men. The pattern is painfully familiar: I fall hard, only to get dumped when they decide they’re done with me.

No more. I refuse to be that girl anymore. The one who gives her whole heart, only to be left broken.

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