Page 53 of He Falls First

She damned sure should expect any date of hers to pull her chair out for her.

Dinner unfolds with mechanical precision. I’m all business, pointing out how she should angle her shoulders, the curve of her wrist as she lifts her glass. It’s like directing a puppet—only this one’s made of flesh and blood, and every move she makes threatens to stir something deep inside me that’s best left undisturbed.

“Keep your back straight,” I instruct when she slouches ever so slightly. “Confidence, Elizabeth. You want them to think you’re unattainable.”

“Them” being any man who isn’t me. The thought scratches at my insides, but I shove it aside.

“Like this?” She adjusts her posture, spine aligning in a way that accentuates the athletic build of her body, and damn if it doesn’t make my mouth go dry.

“Exactly,” I manage, my throat tight. “Now, conversation topics. Keep it light, engaging. No politics or past relationships.”

“Got it,” she says, nodding earnestly. “So, Hendrix, if you were an ice cream flavor, what would you be?”

I blink. Is she serious? But there’s a playful glint in her eye, and I realize she’s trying to add some levity to our mock date. A part of me—a dangerous, reckless part—wants to banter back, to see that spark in her eyes grow brighter.

“Rocky road,” I reply, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Complicated and bittersweet.”

She chuckles, and it’s a sound that tugs at something in my chest. “Perfect answer,” she teases.

“Focus, Elizabeth.” I harden my tone, steering us back on course. “This isn’t about connecting. It’s about attracting attention.”

“Right, of course.” She sobers, but there’s a shadow in her gaze now, a question she seems to be holding back.

“Do you want other men to notice you or not?” My question hangs between us, sharp and pointed.

Elizabeth falls silent, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, it seems she might say something she’ll regret, like confessing that she only wants to be noticed by me. Or maybe that’s just my foolish wishful thinking again.

“Of course,” she finally responds, her voice soft. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

“It is.” I nod. “So let’s stay focused.”

A tense silence follows, and I feel the weight of my decision pressing down on me. My choice to keep this professional, no matter the cost. Even if the cost is watching her walk away.

I clear my throat, breaking the silence. “Let’s move on to dancing. It’s common for a date to end this way, and you’ll need to know how to keep a man’s interest on the dance floor.”

Elizabeth nods and stands, allowing me to lead her onto the open terrace. I place one hand on her waist and take her other hand in mine.

“Your body language is important,” I say, adjusting Elizabeth’s stance. “Keep your back straight, relax your shoulders, and make eye contact. A coy smile helps, too.”

I shouldn’t have said that. The smile playing on her lips now is threatening to undo me.

“Stand closer,” I instruct, my voice gruff. She obeys, stepping into my personal space with an ease that sets my pulse racing. At least I can’t see her smile anymore. She’s too close for that. “Now, follow my lead.”

As we move in sync to the music, the warmth of her body seeps through my suit, and I swear I can feel every curve as if she were pressed against me wearing nothing at all. The thought alone is enough to short-circuit my brain. Get a grip, man.

“Men like mystery,” I say. I guide her hand to rest lightly on my shoulder, while my own finds the small of her back. “Subtle touches. They speak volumes.” My palm burns where it rests against her.

“Like this?” Her voice is softer than the night breeze, and she watches my eyes as she runs the back of her hand lightly down my jaw.

“Exactly,” I say. But nothing about this feels exact or precise. It’s messy and maddening and… God, why does she have to be so intoxicating?

“Most men won’t be able to resist pulling you closer,” I say, tightening my hold on her. “When that happens, tilt your head to the side, exposing your neck. It’s an invitation.”

Elizabeth tilts her head back, her smooth neck stretching out in offering. I stare down at the sight, my breathing growing ragged. How is any man supposed to deny such an invitation?

“Is it appropriate to kiss on the dance floor?”

“Depends on the man,” I answer, my tone clipped. “But he’ll likely find it impossible to resist.” And before I can process the weight of my confession, I’m pulling her into me, claiming her lips with a passion that obliterates any semblance of control I had left.

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