Page 29 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

Harrison pushes the drink closer when I don’t respond. “Come on, take a sip,” he commands.

He has me cornered, and he knows it. I stare down at the black liquid, debating my approach. One thing is for sure, there’s no chance I’m putting a drop of it in my mouth.

I tap my chin thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I might have accidentally swapped salt for sugar. They’re in the same kind of container, and I got confused.”

“Confused my ass,” Harrison scoffs. “What about your coffee? Did you accidentally put salt in yours too, or was I the only victim of yourmistake?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me you’re still not a fan of Diet Coke.”

I shrug. “It’s my guilty pleasure.”

“But having it this early in the morning?”

“At least my vice isn’t bitter, burnt liquid and doesn’t come with a side of crankiness,” I quip, nodding toward his coffee.

“Oh, my vice is bitter, alright.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Am I going to have to double-check everything I put in my mouth from now on?”

“Depends on what you’re planning to put in it,” I deadpan.

He heaves a sigh and picks up his phone from the table. “I’ll have Cabrina pick up coffee on the way to the office. Looks like I can’t trust my private chef with breakfast anymore.” The small curve of his lip betrays his amusement.

“Don’t be dramatic. A mistake with your drink order is one thing. My food will always be flawless,” I say with confidence.

One thing he’ll never have to worry about is me messing with his food. Cooking is my passion, and I’d never jeopardize my reputation as a skilled chef as a means to get back at Harrison. There are far more creative ways to mess with him without ruining my food.

“Great, so it’s just my drinks that are at risk, got it,” he says with a hint of teasing.

“Enjoy your meal, Mr. Stafford,” I say before going back into the kitchen.

I drag a hand across my face, forcing a smile from breaking free. I’m unable to resist the urge of getting a rise out of Harrison, and our banter is always more entertaining than I care to admit. The problem is, it’s a challenge to stay indifferent when he looks like he belongs on the cover of a business magazine, creating fantasies in my head that I know I shouldn’t entertain—even though a small part of me wishes they could.

Later that day, I’m riding the elevator to the lobby with a plate of freshly baked orange rolls in hand, heading down to visit Walter, when I get a text.

Harrison: I have to make a last-minute trip to Chicago.

Harrison: I’ll be back in the morning. Have breakfast ready by 7am.

Fallon: Please.

Harrison: What?

Fallon: I think you meant to say will you please have breakfast ready by 7am.

Fallon: It’s called good manners, but I guess you’re not familiar with those.

Harrison: Maybe if you didn’t push my buttons, I’d make an effort to ask nicely.

Fallon: Doubt it. You’re too stubborn.

Harrison: You’re one to talk.

Fallon: At least I’m not making excuses to avoid you.

Harrison: I’m not avoiding you. I have a business meeting, remember.

Fallon: And you couldn’t go to Chicago, finish your meeting and be back by tonight?

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