Page 28 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

“I think you need a distraction,” he whispers, a sly grin tugging at his lips.

His hand cradles my cheek as he leans in, his mouth grazing mine, the movie fading to nothing in the background.

“I really like you, Elizabeth,” Harrison says.

“I like you too, Mr. Hotshot,” I murmur against his lips. “Now what are you going to do about it?”

He smiles mischievously, sending a flutter through my chest, and I squeal when he scoops me into his arms. I bury my face in his chest, laughing as he carries me to the bedroom. This weekend is quickly becoming one of the best I’ve ever had, and I don’t want it to end.

There’s no escaping the memories of our weekend together, etched in my mind—like the warmth of sunlight on a white duvet, and the feel of Harrison’s scruff against my inner thighs. Even ten years later, our intense chemistry remains—a spark refusing to fade no matter how much time has passed, which only adds to my growing contempt for him. He still hasn’t acknowledged what he did to me and has the audacity to act like he has the right to be upset with me. It makes me even more determined to turn the tables on him.

He wants to pull pranks? Fine, two can play this game.

The next morning, I’m in the kitchen whipping up a batch of orange rolls. I’ve spent a lot of time fine-tuning a gluten-free version, and I’m proud of the recipe I’ve created.

While I was waiting in the lobby for a grocery delivery, Walter told me that they’re his favorite dessert, but he hasn’t had them since his wife passed. He’s been so kind to me since I moved in, and I want to find more ways to show my appreciation since it’s not something I’ve experienced much in my life.

I had the unfortunate privilege of being raised by my grandmother, Josephine Pembroke. She wasn’t exactly the warm, nurturing type, and her version of love came in the form of silent disapproval and constantly trying to meet her impossible standards.

Born and raised by a wealthy family in England, her life was marked by strict traditions and the art of maintaining an impeccable reputation. When my father chose to attend university in the United States and fell in love with a waitress from New Jersey, she was mortified.

After her threats to cut him from his inheritance if he didn’t come back to London failed, she severed all ties. That is, until twelve years later, when she received a call informing her that he and his wife had been in a car accident on their way home from dinner and didn’t make it. She had no idea I existed before the officer informed her that my parents had left behind a daughter.

I had to move to London and spent my teenage years walking on pins and needles to avoid setting off my grandmother’s disapproving gaze. There was no shared laughter or comfortingembraces. Just a cold silence that settled over me like a heavy weight, a constant reminder that she resented me for being the spitting image of my mother. That’s why, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, I moved to Florida with Jeremy. I’ve always considered the States my home since I grew up here with my parents.

The sweet scent of oranges fills the kitchen, and I close my eyes for a moment, imagining my mom beside me. I can almost hear her voice, reminding me to press the dough gently, her hands steady over mine, guiding me with the patience I miss so much.

My eyes flutter open when I hear Harrison’s voice coming from the dining room.

“Fallon, get in here,” he hollers.

I pause kneading the dough for the orange rolls, dust the gluten-free flour blend off my hands, and take my sweet time strolling into the room.

I stop next to the table where Harrison is scowling at his coffee. The plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and gluten-free toast with homemade strawberry chia seed jam I made remains untouched.

He went for his coffee first, just as I predicted.

Good.

“You shouted?” I deadpan.

“What did you do to my coffee?” His tone is exasperated.

I bite the inside of my cheek, stifling a laugh. “You said you liked it black with one sugar. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” He eyes me warily, lifting the mug to his lips, and takes a sip. Immediately after, he spits it out, his face contorting in disgust.

His icy gaze locks on me with unrelenting intensity. “This isn’t drinkable,” he mutters, setting the cup down a little hard, causing it to slosh. “What did you put in it?”

“Maybe your taste buds are broken,” I say, feigning innocence.

He watches me closely, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth making me uneasy. “Would you mind giving it a try? Just to be sure?” He nudges the mug toward me, a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.

I shake my head. “I don’t share beverages. Germs and all.”

He arches a brow. “We’ve swapped more than our fair share of germs in the past. In fact, I recall sharing a bottle of champagne straight from the neck with you.”

Heat rises to my cheeks, knowing that’s far from the only thing we’ve shared.

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