Page 29 of He Falls First

“Abso-bloody-lutely,” he answers quickly. His jaw’s clenched in a way that means business, those green eyes lit up with something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s kind of wild how fast he can scatter a crowd.

Heat crawls up my neck, that tingling feeling that says I’m buzzing with adrenaline. Hendrix’s way of being all possessive—how his arm curled around me, staking claim, how his eyes flashed dangerously at the men encroaching on his territory—it all sends zaps of electricity to places it really shouldn’t.

I’m imagining what else he could do to stake his claim on me with a growl.

What would it be like if Hendrix took to me with that same intensity behind closed doors? Would his hands grip my hips, pulling me close as his lips hungrily devoured mine? Would he back me up against the wall, his body pressed tightly against mine, leaving no room for doubt about who I belonged to? I imagine those strong hands gripping my body, holding me against him. Hendrix’s intensity unleashed, his passion focused solely on me.

“Elizabeth,” Hendrix snaps, jolting me out of my thoughts. We’re alone again, tucked away in a quiet corner of the hotel bar. He seems gruff, almost irritated.

“Sorry,” I murmur, trying to shake off my fantasies. “What’d I miss?”

We’re not having fun together anymore. As we step away from the bar and its cloud of disappointed suitors, Hendrix’s demeanor shifts like he’s hit an internal reset button. He’s all business again, back in his corporate cave.

I glance at him sidelong, taking in his chiseled profile. Hendrix notices me looking and meets my gaze. His eyes darken and I quickly turn away.

“Keep your head in the game, Elizabeth,” he says sternly.

The game. Right. Because this is all just a game. Just a role he’s playing, protecting our arrangement.

Somebody needs to tell that to the throbbing between my legs.

Chapter 11

Hendrix

It’s all playing on repeat in my mind. The memory of those guys’ hands hovering near her, eager for a touch, has been eating me alive since I left that hotel bar. I can’t stop thinking about it, even now on this quiet Saturday without her.

The scent of her hair, a sweet mix of vanilla and something floral, is etched into my memory. It mingles with the aftertaste of jealousy—from those suave wannabes sidling up to Elizabeth while she played the part of the untouchable ice queen. I could practically hear their mental high-fives as they approached her. Objectifying her.

It’s the damn weekend, and I won’t be seeing her today. The thought gnaws at me like a hungry dog on a bone. The game we’re playing isn’t just business anymore, not when the idea of being away from her for a whole weekend makes my gut twist.

This whole charade we’re acting out has taken an unexpected turn somewhere along the way. The lines blurring fiction and reality—it’s messing with my head in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I don’t know how to regain control of the situation. Or myself.

Before I can second-guess the insanity of what I’m doing, I’m grabbing my keys and heading out the door. Impulsivity takes over as I pull up outside Elizabeth’s apartment building. Then I’m out of the car, signaling the movers I’d called to follow me. They shuffle behind, holding empty boxes in their arms and uncertainty on their faces.

Elizabeth opens the door, surprise flashing across her delicate features. She starts to ask what I’m doing here, but I cut her off.

“You’ll have to move in with me,” I state matter-of-factly.

Her brows draw together in confusion, lips parting to protest, but I bulldoze right through her silent objections.

“It’s the only way we make this believable. If we’re engaged, you live with me. End of story.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Elizabeth fires back.

“Quite possibly,” I concede with a half-cocked smirk. “But unless you want Cromwell and his cronies sniffing around, questioning our little love story, this is how it’s got to be.”

My voice comes out gruffer than intended, but I need to maintain control here. Elizabeth looks uncertain, so I add, “I know this is sudden, but we both agreed to do whatever it takes for six weeks. This is what it takes. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Your protective streak is almost kind of sweet, in an overbearing, caveman sort of way,” she says, still scrutinizing me even as she steps aside to let the movers pass.

“Sweet isn’t the term I’d use.” My own voice surprises me; there’s a rough edge I can’t shake off. “I’m just ensuring we both get what we want out of this deal.”

“Right,” she says.

I hold her gaze, willing her to understand. After a tense moment, she gives a slight nod. Relief courses through me, followed swiftly by trepidation about what I’ve just set in motion. But I shove the uncertainty aside, focusing only on the mission.

“I’ll help you pack,” I say decisively, stepping past her into the apartment.

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