Page 21 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

Dylan: Lola’s looking forward to spending Christmas Day at your place. It’s all she’s been able to talk about the past week.

Presley: Jack & I wouldn’t miss it.

Cash: Everly & I will be there.

Mom: Harrison, you’re coming, right? You promised you’d spend the holidays in Aspen Grove.

Harrison: Yes, I’m coming.

Mom: Are you bringing Fallon?

Harrison: No.

Mom: Does she have plans?

Harrison: I haven’t asked.

Mom: Why not?

Harrison: Because she’s my employee, and I don’t spend holidays with employees.

Mom: That’s disappointing. Remember, no working while you’re here.

Dylan: That’s like telling him not to blink.

Dylan knows me well. I’ve already lined up multiple virtual meetings during the holidays and plan to handle businessrelated to the upcoming mergers we have in the works. In corporate real estate, there’s no slow season, and downtime doesn’t exist in my world.

Cash: If Harrison doesn’t have to work, I’m not either.

Harrison: You never work during the holidays, Cash.

Cash: Touché.

I’m exhausted when I finally get to my apartment that night. My first meeting was at seven this morning, and I didn’t leave the office until nine, making me want nothing more than a good night’s sleep and silence.

When I step inside, the savory aroma of garlic and tomato greet me, underscored by a rich, meaty warmth hinting at something simmering on the stove for hours. The scent alone is enough to make my stomach growl, reminding me I haven’t eaten since Cabrina warmed up the salmon and sweet potato power bowl that Fallon prepared.

Sharing a space with Fallon might be unbearable, but even I can’t argue her talent in the kitchen. Every dish is executed to perfection, from the seasoning to the garnish. If only her personality were as palatable as her meals.

When I get to the living room, I stop dead in my tracks, my gaze sweeping over the unrecognizable space. It makes me second-guess if I’m in the right apartment.

Potted plants of all sizes are arranged in every corner, from a towering tree by the floor-to-ceiling windows to a cluster of herbs on a vintage rolling cart. Several white ceramic pots hang from an iron stand in the corner, each holding a variety of succulents. It’s like I’ve stepped into a jungle straight out ofJumanji, where the plants are taking over and fighting for every inch of space.

My leather sectional is now buried under a sea of mismatched throw pillows. A floral rug now covers a large portion of the room, and a coffee table has been placed in the middle, holding a large ceramic bowl overflowing with lemons. The once-empty walls now display London-inspired artwork and framed recipes, each scrawled in different handwriting.

Fallon was supposed to move all her stuff into the bedroom, not stage a hostile takeover of my living room.

This ends now.

The first place I look for her is the kitchen. Even when she’s off the clock, she’s usually there.

Sure enough, I find her perched on a barstool at the counter with her legs pulled up to her chest. She has her computer in front of her, and a photo editing app open with an image of a plated dish of hummus and vegetables on the screen.

A satisfied smirk tugs at my mouth when I notice she’s wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved sweater. Looks like my plan to crank down the heat is working better than expected.

The problem is, even in baggy clothes, I can’t ignore how stunning she is. Over the years, she’s only become more stunning, and it’s annoying that I still have a visceral reaction whenever I look at her.

Fallon casually tips her head in my direction, her brow furrowed. “Harrison, is everything okay? Your dinner is on the warming tray in the dining room, like you wanted.” She doesn’t wait for a response before shifting focus back to her computer.

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