Page 8 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

“Elizabeth, wait.” The sound of my first name makes me flinch.

After my parents passed and I moved in with my grandmother, she insisted I use it. One day, I’m going to change it and never look back.

I turn around to find Harrison running toward me with a bouquet of white tulips in hand.

“Sorry I’m late. I spent the last thirty minutes trying to find a place nearby that sells flowers.” He holds them out. “These are for you.”

Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I’m taken by surprise by the sweet gesture.

I take a bottle of Dom Pérignon out of my purse. “I got you something too.”

He takes it, giving me the flowers in exchange. “This is amazing. Didn’t think you had it in you to sneak a bottle,” he chuckles.

“I didn’t,” I confess with a shrug. “The supervisor stashed a whole box in the closet for themselves, and I think he was worried I’d report him if he didn’t let me have one.”

“Either way, I’m impressed,” Harrison says. “I hope you don’t mind, but I grabbed takeout from a place nearby, including your six-pack of Diet Coke. Thought we could eat at the park across the street. There’s a game going on at the basketball court, so all the lights are still on. You must be starving.”

The weather in Florida is perfect for May, so it’s a great night to eat outside.

“That would be great.” I smile, pushing a piece of hair behind my ear.

He holds open the door, ushering me outside. “Sounds good, after you.”

I think I’ve severely misjudged this man, and I’m looking forward to getting to know him better. There’s no telling where the night will take us, but I’m open to seeing where things go.

The elevator lurches, and I quickly steady myself.

That memory reminds me how much I hate the name Elizabeth. My grandmother claimed it was more proper, though I suspect it was only another way to spite my mother. For years after I moved out, I stuck with it since Jeremy only ever knew me as Elizabeth. But after my weekend with Harrison, I decided I was done letting others dictate my life. I legally changed my name to Fallon, reclaiming both my identity and my future.

I need to remember to stay guarded when I meet with Harrison and to ignore the traitorous thrum of my heart when we’re in the same room.

As I step off the elevator, Cabrina is waiting. I recognize her from the video call a few months ago when I was first offered the job. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, her posture is impeccable, and the tailored suit accentuates her confident demeanor.

She offers me a polite smile. “Welcome, Ms. Hayes. It’s so nice to finally meet you in person.” She extends her hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you in person as well,” I say, returning her smile.

A marble reception desk is set up nearby with fresh flowers on either end, with a monitor and computer in the center. Soft ambient music plays in the background, but there’s no designated waiting area, so I assume visitors are only called up when Harrison is ready for a meeting.

“We better not keep Mr. Stafford waiting,” Cabrina says, motioning for me to follow as she heads down a hallway leading to a set of doors, her heels clicking against the wood floor.

“Right,” I mumble, jogging after her.

My heart pounds with every step we take toward his office. I’m second-guessing my decision to even come here. Even though I have no intention of accepting Harrison’s offer, part ofme wants to give him a taste of his own medicine of what it’s like to be led on. That thought is what drives me forward.

“Here we are,” Cabrina announces cheerfully.

I lift my gaze to see her standing in front of a looming set of oak doors. She pushes one of them open, waving me inside.

“Good luck,” she whispers before shutting the door behind her.

Guess I’m on my own now.

I swallow thickly as I look ahead at Harrison. He’s at his desk, focused on his computer, his fingers flying across the keys. His hardened expression is a far cry from the cocky hockey player with an easy grin. The man before me appears carved from stone, nothing like the carefree athlete who could light up a room with his laughter.

He’s somehow more attractive than before. His black hair is styled in a tapered fade, and he still has the physique of a hockey player—lean and athletic. He exudes confidence in his gray three-piece suit, his presence undeniably magnetic. I curse my libido for getting in the way of my mission to stay unaffected by him.

To distract myself, I take in the sprawling office, which makes the apartments I visited earlier seem impossibly tiny in comparison. Harrison’s desk sits in the front of a wall lined with shelves, stacked with architectural models and real estate reports. Modern art pieces add color to the space, and there’s a private lounge area complete with two chairs, a leather sofa, and a well-stocked bar cart. The space is bathed in natural light from the windows, offering a panoramic view of the city skyline. Its minimalist style makes a statement all on its own.

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