Page 14 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

I glance over at the movers, who are carrying in another load of boxes into my apartment. “How many could there possibly be?” I ask, my patience wearing thin.

“This is the last of it,” one of them calls over his shoulder.

“Thank god,” I mutter under my breath.

It’s been a week since I agreed to let Fallon move in, and I’m no less irritated by the predicament we’re in, especially now that she’s taking over my space. My once spotless living room is now unrecognizable, buried under a mountain of her things. WhenI was told she was having her stuff delivered, I didn’t expect a moving crew to show up and unload for two hours.

My jaw twitches when I take in the dozens of plants and herbs lining the wall, the pile of blankets Fallon carelessly tossed on the couch earlier, and the sea of boxes labeled “living room”. It’s enough to make my blood pressure rise just by looking at the mess.

Is it a crime that after a chaotic day at work, I want to come home to peace and order, where I can decompress and focus without any distractions? There’s a reason I asked the interior designer to avoid any unnecessary additions like plants, throw pillows, or extra furniture. Now, instead of a peaceful retreat, I’m surrounded by clutter, making my skin crawl.

When the movers finish, I give them a generous tip, sighing in relief when I shut the door behind them.

I’m ready to retreat to my home office when the sharp noise of cardboard tearing echoes from the kitchen. I go to investigate and find Fallon standing on a stepstool, digging through a box of spices on the counter.

At work, precision is non-negotiable. Every deal I close and the meetings I lead must be executed flawlessly. A single misstep or overlooked detail has serious consequences. I apply the same principle at home. A clean space leads to a focused mind. Disorder is a distraction, and I can’t afford the chaos that follows. Unfortunately, Fallon doesn’t seem to share my perspective, and her disregard for order has shattered the calm that I rely on to stay focused.

She’s changed into a hoodie and form-fitting lounge shorts. I stumble slightly when I notice from this angle, I have a view of her backside, the shorts clinging to her curves, distracting me with her perfect ass.

This could be a problem.

Aren’t chefs supposed to wear something more professional? The first one I hired wore slacks and a white shirt under their apron. Maybe I should impose a dress code for Fallon. The only problem is she lives here now, so it might prove difficult to demand she wear professional attire when she’s not on the clock.

She’s perched on a stool, pulling out a bottle of vanilla from the cabinet next to the stove and tossing it into the trash bin next to her, a sliver of creamy skin exposed where her hoodie lifts.

On second thought, why can’t I enforce a dress code?

This is my house, which means my rules are non-negotiable. Biding my time, I observe as she unpacks the rest of the box, rearranging the cupboard to make room for all of her spices.

“Why did you throw that out?” I ask, my voice cutting through the silence. “I already have an organization system in place and didn’t ask for you to replace anything.”

My last chef arranged the kitchen and pantry, and it’s what I’m used to. So, watching Fallon rearrange and throw things out without consulting me first is maddening.

“I’m updating your spice cupboard,” she says as she drops a jar of crème de tartar into the trash.

“Why?”

“Because some of these spice blends could have traces of gluten, and I’d rather not accidentally poison you,” she deadpans.

No, she’d rather do that on purpose.

“Do you really have to throwallof them out?”

“Yes.” Fallon takes her arm and sweeps the remaining items from my cabinet into the trash bin and unpacks the rest of the box, placing the new spices in the cupboard.

A muscle tightens in my jaw as she moves to the next cupboard, her eyes scanning the shelves before she reaches for the juicer on the top shelf. When it proves too far out ofreach, she braces a hand on the counter and hoists herself up, abandoning the stool.

“What the hell are you doing?” I exclaim in alarm. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

I step toward her despite her waving me off. “I’m fine,” she insists.

With determination, Fallon pushes her hair out of her face. “Come on, just a little higher,” she mutters, reaching for the juicer. Her fingertips brush the edge, but it doesn’t budge. She shifts her weight, stretching herself just a little higher—until her foot slips. She lets out a sharp gasp as she teeters, but I’m already there, gripping her waist to steady her and lowering her to the floor. Her feet hit the ground with a soft thud, and she stands there, breathless, her posture rigid.

My hands linger on her waist, my fingertips brushing against her bare skin where her hoodie has ridden up again. The contact sends a jolt of awareness through me, and I quickly pull my hands away, schooling my expression when Fallon spins around to face me.

“You need to be more careful,” I say sharply. “And I hadn’t considered a uniform addendum to the contract, but maybe I should have.”

Fallon raises a brow as she steps toward me. “Excuse me?”

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