Page 27 of He Falls First

“I figured,” I tell him. “But I was reading Janice—she was impressed with our clothes, and I don’t think she would’ve found it cute if I burned your designer threads.”

Fun image of Hendrix wriggling out of his burning clothes notwithstanding.

He looks at me. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Reading people?” He pulls at his tie. “I’ve never quite mastered that. Eventually I stopped trying.”

“Guess that’s why we’re a good team.”

He frowns. “So why’s it so hard for you to read the guys you date? To figure out for yourself what it takes to make them fall first?”

I think about it for a second. “I think because I get too caught up in what they want from me. I lose myself a little, and then the rest is history.”

His frown deepens, lines burrowing between his brows. “We’ll fix that,” he says.

As we keep moving through the crowd, the ballroom’s packed with tech bigwigs, but they all make way for Hendrix Monroe. I’m on his arm, hustling to match his long steps and the sharpness of his reputation.

I quickly realize we’ll need to learn more about each other to successfully pull off this charade. Coming up with our meet-cute on the fly was hard enough, but I’ve already passed him the wrong hors d’oeuvre and realized I need to learn about his food allergies. And that’s just the beginning.

We’ll probably have to spend some alone time together to trade info. The thought is more than a little enticing.

As the night wears on, I find myself leaning into his casual touches, no longer questioning their authenticity. And when he whispers instructions—“Stand tall, don’t fidget”—I soak in his words just to feel his lips graze my ear.

I know it’s only for show, but something in me hopes his hands linger a little longer than necessary when we dance. That the smile he gives me across a group of people holds a flicker of real affection.

He’s nailing this whole thing—no surprise there.

But me? My feet are getting sore and I’m tottering in these unfamiliar heels like a newborn giraffe, trying to act “unattainable” like Hendrix told me. But with every step through the grand hotel lobby, I feel less like a queen and more like a court jester on stilts. My attempts at a sultry gaze probably look more like someone who’s lost her glasses—squinty, a bit confused, and hoping no one notices I’m basically blind without them.

“Elizabeth,” Hendrix hisses, a touch of desperation coloring his voice. “Maybe don’t look directly into the light fixtures? You’re supposed to dazzle, not be dazzled.”

“Got it,” I mutter, redirecting my gaze to the polished marble floor, which only leads to another near mishap as I catch my heel in a crevice. “Who designed this place, a sadist?”

“Focus on walking. Allure is ninety percent not falling on your face,” he advises. He’s joking, I think, purposely sounding like he’s reading from ‘The Billionaire’s Guide to Babysitting.’

“Thanks for the tip,” I retort, only half sarcastic. The other half is busy praying to the gods of coordination.

We finally make it to the bar, away from the ballroom’s prying eyes, and it feels like I’ve just crossed the finish line of some twisted upper-crust triathlon. Here, the soft clinking of ice in crystal glasses and the low hum of jazz take over from the orchestral swells back at the party. The dark wood and leather furnishings make the space feel cozy and a bit secretive. Intimate, shadowy—a place where secrets have a tab.

I smooth my hands over my dress, suddenly self-conscious. The ballroom was one thing, but here, away from the crowd, I feel exposed. It’s like this is the real test of all that confidence and allure Hendrix has been trying to instill in me tonight.

I check myself out in a nearby mirror and take a deep breath before walking across the room, trying to ooze confidence I’m not sure I have. Unfortunately, my attempt at allure doesn’t go quite as planned. As I strut past a group of guys, I snag my heel on a rug and stumble forward, narrowly avoiding a faceplant into a stranger’s lap.

“Graceful,” Hendrix mutters, quickly catching me by the arm and steadying me.

“Thanks,” I mumble, blushing furiously.

“Try again,” he says curtly. “You’ve got this.”

Determined to prove him right, I stand tall and make my way towards the bar.

“Better,” Hendrix says as he catches up, eyeing me with a mix of disbelief and reluctant admiration. “Now, if someone approaches, remember: aloof. Interested, but not too eager. Let them come to you.”

“Like a spider waiting for flies?” I ask, a little too enthusiastically.

“Sure, if the spider wore a cocktail dress and knew how to flirt without spinning a web,” he says.

“Spiders are very seductive.” I have no idea what I’m saying, but I’m standing behind it because, according to Hendrix, faking it is half the battle. Right?

“Keep it up, Liz. Your confidence is showing.”

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