Page 23 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

Fallon chuckles. “If I’m allowed to stay, does that mean the plants can, too?”

I sigh heavily. “Fine, but that’s where I draw the line.”

“We’ll see.” She smirks, sitting back down and opening her computer.

I’m way in over my head, and if I’m not careful, I might cross the line between indifference and actually giving a damn, forgetting why I’ve kept my distance from her in the first place.

I’m on the elevator headed up to my apartment after an early morning workout with the Mavericks hockey team. After pushing through a grueling leg workout and a three-mile run, sweat clings to my skin, and I can’t wait to hop in the shower.

Aleksandr: Solid workout, old man, but I out-lifted you.

Harrison: Don’t get cocky, I still own you at the mile.

Aleksandr: Enjoy it while it lasts.

Harrison: Tell you what. Beat me, and I’ll teach you that faceoff trick you’ve been pestering me about.

Aleksandr: Game on.

He’s the team captain, and he reminds me of myself when I was his age. Cocky, ambitious, and hungry for success, no matter the cost.

When I retired from playing professionally, I missed the thrill of competition and doing something I was passionate about. To offset the loss, I started practicing with the Mavericks, a proteam in New York, hoping to feel that competitive edge again. When the opportunity came up to invest as a part owner, I jumped at the chance. It meant more responsibilities, but I couldn’t pass up being part of something important to me.

Despite my jam-packed schedule, I train with the team four days a week and workout in my apartment building’s gym on the other days. I’m not as nimble as I used to be, and my time spent with the team pushes my limits. The majority are at least ten years younger, a fact they’re quick to remind me of, but I welcome the challenge that comes with it.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve especially needed an outlet to release my frustrations. Work has been kicking my ass—between preparing end-of-year financials, dealing with unexpected zoning laws for a project we have in Houston, Texas, and managing day-to-day operations, I’ve had my hands full.

Not to mention the peace I once felt at home has been replaced with a simmering frustration.

There was a reason I was avoiding Fallon. Every interaction is a sparring match that leaves me equally frustrated and conflicted.

When I get to my apartment, I head straight for my room. I tug off my shirt and toss it in the clothes hamper in the corner. I’m halfway to the bathroom when I pause, spinning around to look at my bed.

My eyes widen when I register that the entire thing is covered in fuzzy pink and purple throw pillows. There must be at least fifty, and not a single inch of the mattress is visible under the pile of fluff.

Fallon.

In the past two weeks since she’s been here, I’ve lost control of my own space. The house smells like vanilla and orange, plants have overtaken my living room, and now she’s pullingstunts like staging a throw pillow blitz. In my bedroom no less, which I explicitly told her was off-limits.

If she were anyone else, I wouldn’t think twice about firing her. Not after our conversation last night.

You brought this on yourself.

Apparently, my conscience has decided to make an appearance, conveniently forgetting why I’m distant with Fallon in the first place. It’s not fair that she gets a free pass when she made the choice to move on without an apology or offering an explanation. Not that I want to hear her excuses anyway.

When I get to the kitchen to confront her, I come to a standstill when I find her hovering in front of the oven, taking out a loaf of bread. The lime-green tank top and boy shorts she’s wearing leave little to the imagination, and I take in every inch of her as my gaze lingers on her curves.

Where are the rest of her clothes?

Come to think of it, why is it so warm in here?

Fallon tugs her lip between her teeth as she sets the pan on the stovetop and bends down to study it. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, exposing the smooth slope of her collarbone, and an unwanted image flashes in my mind of me pinning her against the counter, wrapping my fingers around her delicate neck, my fingers digging into her soft skin as I kiss her soft lips.

Her voice snaps me out of my daydream. “The edges are too crispy,” she mutters, still unaware of my presence. “I’ll have to lower the oven temperature by ten degrees to avoid that next time.”

I watch as she leans over the counter to write in a notebook, crossing out a line, then pauses, tapping the pen against her mouth in thought. Much to my annoyance, I can’t help but notice how stunning she is. The light shining from thekitchen windows, illuminating her features, only adds to her beauty.After a beat, she scribblessomething in the margin, her hand moving quickly as if racing against time.

“Plotting the perfect recipe for world domination?” I ask, breaking the silence.

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