Page 16 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

“God, I hope you’re wrong.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Dylan says. “She won’t rest until you’re married with a kid on the way.”

Cash reclines in his chair, propping his feet on his desk. “This is going to be entertaining. I’m going to need popcorn.”

“If you’re finished discussing my personal life, maybe we can get to the actual agenda for this meeting,” I say tersely.

“Yes, boss,” Cash taunts.

I glare at him, not impressed by his jab.

My brothers have been invaluable in helping to run the company, but with families of their own now, their priorities have shifted, leaving me to take on more of the day-to-day responsibilities so they can maintain a healthy balance between work and family. I’d rather carry this burden on my own than make anyone suffer alongside me.

For the most part, I enjoy my job, but it’s not for the faint of heart. We’re currently in the middle of a large expansion on the West Coast and in Europe, so I’ve been managing endless meetings and negotiations and acquiring additional properties.

It has left me with little time for my responsibilities as the co-owner of the Mavericks, a local professional hockey team. Still, I make it work with lots of coffee and sheer determination because being a part of a hockey team again, even in an executive role, has allowed me to stay connected to the sport I love.

I pull up the presentation Dylan sent me this morning and share my screen so he and Cash can see it.

“Let’s start by analyzing last month’s financial report,” I instruct. “Take it away, Dylan.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” He accepts the invite to take over as presenter.

I spend the rest of the meeting listening as Dylan walks Cash and me through updates while trying not to think about all the damage Fallon could be inflicting on my apartment right now.

The image of her in those damn shorts is all I can see—how they clung to her curves, the way the fabric stretched over her toned legs, and how they rode up when she moved.

I shake my head, mentally kicking myself.

What the hell am I thinking?

I need to get a grip. It’s challenging enough having her in my space, but if my physical reaction to her earlier is any indication, I’d better establish clearer boundaries for myself—and fast.

Walter, the doorman, nods in my direction as he opens the door for me, leading into the lobby of the apartment building. The place screams old-money luxury with a grand crystal chandelier casting a soft glow on the gleaming marble floors. A reception desk is set off to the left and made of granite and glass with brass accents. Large pieces of artwork from local artists hang on the walls, bringing a personal touch to the space that feels more like stepping into a five-star hotel than a residential building.

“Good morning, Miss Hayes,” Walter says, tipping his cap as I walk past him.

He’s wearing his signature charcoal-gray suit with a nameplate pinned to his chest, paired with white gloves and freshly polished boots. His posture is impeccable, hinting at years of discipline.

“Good morning, Walter,” I say with a smile. “And please, for the last time, call me Fallon. Miss Hayes is too formal.”

Not to mention, it’s my grandmother’s preferred title, and being lumped in with her isn’t a compliment. She’s as cold and manipulative as they come. Her only redeeming quality is living in Hampstead, England. Which meant that once I moved to the States after I graduated high school, I didn’t have to see her and flat-out refused to visit when I moved back to London to work with Theo. She might have raised me after my parents died, but that doesn’t erase my disdain for her.

“Expecting another delivery?” Walter asks when I lean against the reception desk.

I nod with a smile. “A box of local produce from Eastside Harvest. It should be here any minute.” I hold out a cup of coffee with extra cream and two sugars. “This is for you. I overheard you on a call with the building manager about the broken coffee machine in the breakroom, and with how busy things were when I left earlier, I couldn’t let you go without this morning.”

Walter offers a small bow as he accepts the cup. “You’re too kind, Miss Fallon. I really appreciate the gesture.”

I chuckle. “It’s the least I can do since you’ve had to put up with all of my deliveries.”

Cabrina sent over one of Harrison’s credit cards and encouraged me to purchase whatever I needed. I compiled a long list of essentials, including new pots, pans, and baking sheets. When cooking for someone with celiac disease, it’s critical to avoid cross-contamination. The smallest trace of gluten can trigger a flare-up or worse, cause serious harm, so I’m not taking any risks.

“It’s never a bother,” Walter says as he flips through a stack of incoming mail, sorting by apartment number. “You’re a breath of fresh air. Most residents and their staff don’t pay me any mind, let alone even consider bringing me a cup of coffee.” He pauses his task to take a sip of his drink.

“Mr. Stafford included?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

He shakes his head. “Mr. Stafford is the exception. He always waves when he comes and goes and gives me a generous holiday bonus every year. He’s a good man.”

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