Page 71 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

“I want to open my own restaurant, actually,” I say, skewering a Brussel sprout with my fork. It’s savory and delicious, and I swallow before continuing. “One that’s completely allergy-friendly. It’s hard to find places with safe options, and oftentimes, they’re cross-contaminated. My dream is to create a safe space where people with allergies can dine without questioning what’s in their food or worrying about getting sick.”

“That’s impressive.” He takes my hand, his expression tender as his eyes meet mine. “Would you open it here or somewhere else?”

“New York City has won me over, and based on the research I’ve done for Theo’s restaurants, there’s a demand for this kind of place. I’m also writing a cookbook. It’s still a work in progress, but the goal is to help people navigate cooking with food allergies at home too.”

He leans in, closing the gap so our faces are almost touching. “I knew you were up to something in that kitchen besides cooking and plotting my demise with pranks.”

“What about you?” I ask, tapping his chest lightly. “As I recall, you weren’t exactly innocent, doing your best to get under my skin, hoping I’d hit my breaking point and leave. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“That’s what the spiders were for,” he says with a rueful smile. “I’m really glad you didn’t leave.”

“Me too,” I say softly.

I lean back in my chair, letting the comfortable silence settle in around us. Harrison carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s usually drafting emails, constantly on the phone, or rushing out the door. It’s a welcome change to see him so at ease, and to be on the receiving end of his undivided attention, and I can’t help but crave more of it.

After dinner, Harrison steps into his office for a work call, so I check on Cat. He’s in the middle of tearing apart one of my towels, giving me a disinterested glance when I enter the bathroom. The bowl I left in the corner earlier has been licked clean, not a trace of salmon delight in sight. If I hadn’t left him with an extra portion, the towel might not have been his only casualty.

When he notices the door ajar, he saunters toward it, meowing loudly, begging for freedom.

I widen my stance, blocking his exit. “I’ll let you out if you promise not to cause any mayhem tonight. Harrison is in a good mood, and the last thing we need is to mess that up.” When I step aside, Cat darts out of the bathroom, tail flicking as if taunting me to chase him.

“You better behave,” I call out after him.

Not that there’s much I can do if he doesn’t. That cat has me wrapped around his finger, whether I like it or not.

I follow close behind, keeping an eye on him in case he tries anything mischievous. He makes a beeline for the living room, hopping on the couch, and curls up in the blanket he’s now claimed as his. Once he lays his head down, signaling that he’s not going anywhere, I take it as my cue to leave.

I head into the dining area to collect the dirty dishes from dinner and carry them to the kitchen. I set them in the sink and turn on the faucet for hot water. I’m just about to start washingthem when Harrison strolls in, sporting gray sweats low on his hips and a dark green T-shirt stretching across his chest. He must have changed out of his suit after his call. Thank god he has no idea that seeing him in casual clothes is my kryptonite—otherwise, he’d probably wear them around the apartment just to torment me. Now I’m convinced that’s why he has a problem with me wearing shorts and tank tops.

Damn our mutual attraction.

I’ve learned the hard way that taking risks with men—Harrison included—only leads to pain. It’s difficult to imagine a situation where it could turn out for the better. If things go south, not only would I lose my place to live, but also the generous salary I’m using to save up for my restaurant.

Harrison steps behind me and nudges my shoulder. “Scoot over,” he instructs.

I stay rooted in place, still dazed by how good he looks in sweats. “Why?”

“You made dinner, so it’s only fair that I help with the dishes.” He edges closer, his leg brushing against mine. “Why don’t you rinse, and I’ll load the dishwasher,” he suggests.

I absentmindedly nod, and my senses becoming hyperaware of the subtle pressure as his proximity fills the space. A simple touch shouldn’t hold this kind of power, yet here I am, fighting the urge to lean in.

To stay busy, I grab the dishcloth hanging from the faucet and swipe one of the plates clean. I hand it off to Harrison, careful that our hands don’t touch, not wanting to risk inciting a spark I won’t be able to extinguish.

Harrison moves with practiced precision, his motions steady and efficient. I scrub a dish, barely noticing the water running over my hand, too caught up in watching the way his thumb strokes the edge of a plate before setting it into the dishwasher.He exhales softly, a slow, controlled breath sending a shiver down my spine.

“I didn’t peg you for a dishwasher pro,” I tease. “I’m impressed.”

He rolls his eyes. “My family may be wealthy, but my parents taught us the importance of humility and hard work, regardless of the balance of our bank account. That’s why they raised us in Aspen Grove—to prioritize giving us a loving, supportive environment where we could stay grounded.”

I swallow back the lump in my throat. His words trigger memories of living with my parents in a row house with peeling linoleum floors, where the heat rarely worked. My dad worked construction, and my mom waited tables at the diner down the street.

Every day after school, my mom waited for me at home, pulling me into a warm embrace when I stepped through the door. She always let me help her with dinner, and we’d gather around the kitchen table as a family. We didn’t have much, but love was in endless supply. Now it feels like a relic of another life—a rare treasure, no longer within reach. I miss my parents so much. Their absence is a hollow space in my heart I’ll never be able to fill, no matter how much time passes.

Harrison gives me a concerned look, wiping his hand on a towel before resting his hand on my arm. “Fallon, where did you go just now?”

I stare at him, tempted to lie, but the truth weighs heavy tonight. “Listening to you talk about your family makes me miss my parents,” I admit.

“Do they live in London?” he asks with genuine curiosity.

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