Page 7 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

“How can I help you?”

“Mr. Stafford wants to meet with you to further discuss the possibility of having you as his private chef, if you’re still available, that is.”

I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to argue. The nerve of that man is unbelievable. I made it clear when I was in Aspen Grove that I had no interest in working for him. He explicitly expressedthat he felt the same way, so I can’t figure out why he’s suddenly treating this like an opportunity I’d jump at. And the gall of him to even think I’m still available? Absurd.

It doesn’t matter that I am.

“I appreciate you reaching out, but Mr. Stafford and I agreed that I wasn’t the right fit,” I say, confused.

“He’s hoping you’ll reconsider,” Cabrina says, followed by the soft rustle of papers in the background. “Your qualifications are unmatched, and we haven’t found anyone else with your experience in gluten-free cuisine.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

How did she know that was the right thing to say? I figured when I moved to New York it would be easy to find clients, which at first it was, but I quickly learned that I’m not content working for those without dietary restrictions. It’s much more rewarding spending my time helping those who benefit from my specialty.

“I understand Mr. Stafford isn’t the easiest person to get along with,” Cabrina admits with a half-hearted laugh when I don’t respond. “That said, he pays incredibly well, and the hours are flexible, given his frequent travel schedule. It would mean a lot if you’d at least meet with him.”

My resolve wavers as my gaze drifts to the apartment building I just toured. Finding anything decent within my current budget seems impossible. Cabrina said the pay is generous, so hearing Harrison out can’t hurt—it’s not like I’m going to accept the job.

I close my eyes, my grip tightening on the phone. “I’ll come by to speak with Mr. Stafford, but I’m not making any promises.”

“Thank you so much,” she exclaims. “You won’t regret this.”

I already do.

I glance up at the imposing building, the glass-and-steel exterior gleaming under the afternoon sun. The modern design stands out against the surrounding historic architecture. Inside, the lobby boasts polished marble floors and high ceilings accented by contemporary art and geometric light fixtures. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the walls, flooding the space with natural light, and leather lounge chairs are arranged along the edges of the room for visitors.

As I approach the large reception desk near the bank of elevators, a security guard in a navy uniform looks up from his screen and gives me a courteous nod.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Stafford,” I say with a small smile.

“I’ll need your name and identification for verification.”

“Certainly. It’s Fallon Hayes,” I say, taking out my driver’s license to hand it to him.

He glances down at his computer, typing on his keyboard before printing a temp badge and handing it to me, along with my ID.

“The last elevator on your right will take you directly to Mr. Stafford’s reception area on the top floor,” he directs.

I fasten the badge on my jacket. “Thanks.” I stand a little taller as I move toward the elevator.

When I step inside, a soft chime rings, and the doors automatically close.

Cabrina sent a follow-up email after our call with instructions on how to get here, and I had just enough time to stop by my apartment and change into a black pencil skirt and ivory sweater.

I take a deep breath and glance at myself in the door’s reflection, smoothing down the skirt, trying to ward off my nerves. I’m going to speak with Harrison and then leave. That’s all there is to it. I can’t let any amount of money change my mind about the position. I refuse to back down. I’m here to prove that he doesn’t affect me anymore and that I’m not intimidated by him.

The problem is that the memories of our weekend together keep surfacing, unwelcome and persistent.

I check my watch again. Twenty minutes have passed, and still no sign of Harrison. The Huskies’ event is long over, and I overheard another player mention the team was headed to a club. I can’t help but wonder if Harrison stood me up to hang out with his buddies—or a puck bunny.

When the temp agency offered me a job waiting tables for a hockey team tonight, I almost turned it down. It doesn’t matter that I need the money for culinary school.

My ex, Jeremy, plays for the Stormbreakers, the Huskies’ biggest rivals. I followed him to the States after he signed a pro contract, but shortly after we arrived, he decided he wasn’t ready for a committed relationship and broke up with me.

He left a bad taste in my mouth when it comes to hockey players in general. So, when I ran into Harrison tonight, I was already skeptical. Now I’m starting to think it was a mistake to agree to meet him. I’m halfway to the front door when I hear shouting behind me.

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