Page 40 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

“That’s quite the haul,” he observes, nodding to my armful of supplies. “Did you get a pet?”

I shake my head, adjusting the bags and brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “No. Harrison left me with his cat while he’s out of town.” Walter steps forward to take a few bags from my hands, and I offer him a grateful smile. “Funny how I’ve lived with him for weeks and didn’t know he had one. Did you?”

Walter scratches his chin thoughtfully. “That’s curious. I’ve never seen him with a cat, but maybe he had all the supplies delivered in the past and had a vet come to his penthouse. There are other residents in the building who do that. Or maybe he recently got it.”

I lower my shoulders. “That’s what I figured since his fur is matted, and he smells like the sewer. Either way, Cat’s a little demon, and I’m dreading our next standoff. He’s already torn up the couch, so I can’t imagine what he’ll do when I try to give him a bath. I’d wait to make Harrison deal with it, but it can’t wait.”

Walter lets out a hearty laugh. “I love the name. Very original.” He moves toward the elevator. “Come. I’ll help you get everything up to Harrison’s apartment.”

“I appreciate it,” I respond as I follow him. “There’s a loaf of banana bread cooling with your name on it. I’ll grab it for you to take once we get to the penthouse.”

“I’d never turn down your food.” Walter grins.

On our way up to the penthouse, I get another text from Harrison.

Harrison: Going through my credit card statement. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or horrified that you dropped $40,000 at Maison du Chef earlier this month.

Fallon: I replaced all the cooking supplies in your kitchen. I didn’t want to risk anything being contaminated.

Harrison: Looks liked you bought out the whole damn store.

Fallon: You’re lucky. I would have spent more, but they didn’t have a tomato-red Dansk Enamelware pot.

Harrison: A what?

Fallon: It’s nothing. There’s just a particular pot my mom used when I was growing up, and it’s been impossible to find one like it.

Fallon: Also, expect a charge on your card from Velvet Paw soon.

Harrison: Isn’t that a pet store?

Fallon: Yup.

A smug smile plays on my lips as I put my phone back in my pocket. I’ll let him stew about it.

I’ll likely regret it, but I’m looking forward to Harrison’s return. It’s so much more fun giving him a hard time when he’s here in person.

That’s not the only reason you’re looking forward to it.

A surge of irritation rushes through me, but I shut it down, pushing aside the nagging voice in my head. My interest in Harrison isn’t personal—it’s all about settling the score for the pain he caused and for the indifference he’s shown me since coming back into my life. Yet, as I glance at my phone, his texts staring back at me, a flutter of old feelings stir beneaththe surface, making me more concerned that it’s more than just about getting even.

The past week has been pure chaos, juggling catering events nearly every night for clients hosting holiday parties.

When I’m not cooking, planning menus, or restocking ingredients, I’m chasing Cat around the apartment, attempting to save Harrison’s place from his reign of destruction. I was fine with a few claw marks to get a reaction out of Harrison, but Cat has declared an all-out rebellion against the furniture. At this rate, there might not be much of a penthouse for Harrison to come home to.

Cat is nothing short of a literal demon. The morning after I discovered him, I found the vase of flowers I had on the kitchen counter in fragments scattered across the floor, with water spread in every direction. The next day, he attacked the curtains in the dining room, scaling them like a jungle gym and tearing them to ribbons. And just yesterday, he wandered into the guest bathroom and treated the toilet paper like a ball of yarn, leaving a mess of shredded paper across the apartment.

I’m convinced he was either trained by an evil mastermind or is straight-up possessed. There’s no other way to explain his behavior. The only time he isn’t wreaking havoc is when he’s curled up in my blanket, which he’s since claimed as his own, watching horror movies with me on the couch. His favorite so far isPoltergeist. When I paused the movie to grab another Diet Coke, he wouldn’t stop meowing until I hit play again. It’s more proof that he’s a hell spawn wrapped in fur.

It’s two days before Christmas, and I’m catering a private art gallery in Chelsea. I’m prepping the ingredients and sauces for the dishes at the penthouse and will assemble everything in the kitchen at the venue.

My client requested crab cakes, so I’m making my signature lemon-dill yogurt sauce—always a crowd favorite. It’s coming together nicely, but when I taste it, there’s something missing. I set the spatula I’m using and grab a lemon from the fridge. When I turn back around, I find Cat sitting on the counter, next to the bowl, his green eyes fixed on the sauce.

“Don’t you dare,” I state sternly.

Before I can stop him, he bumps into the bowl, sending globes of sauce flying in every direction.

I blow out a slow breath, covering my face with my hands.

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