Page 52 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

Fallon: It’s not fair.

Lila: What’s not?

Fallon: You have a cute, cuddly dog who adores you, and I’m saddled with a demon cat who is hell-bent on making my life miserable.

Lila: I take it Cat is still giving you trouble?

Fallon: He hasn’t stopped since he arrived.

Fallon: Just this morning, he dragged all of my shoes from the closet and chewed on the laces.

Lila: When is Harrison supposed to get back?

Fallon: Next week, I think. I should have asked him when he called earlier.

Lila: Wait. He called you?! Why?

Fallon: He checked the cameras in his office and saw that I tampered with his hockey stick.

I really hope he didn’t see the footage of me when I saw his jersey. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m still hung up on what happened all those years ago.

Lila: What did he think of your bedazzling job?

Fallon: Judging by the volume of his complaints, I’d say he wasn’t a fan.

Lila: The nerve of him.

Fallon: I know, right!? It took me hours, and he can’t even show a little appreciation?

Fallon: He and Cat have that in common.

Fallon: Are you and Winston excited to move to California?

Lila: A little nervous, but Brooks promised we’ll love it.

Fallon: Is now a good time to say I told you so?

Lila: For once, I’m glad you were right.

Fallon: I’m really happy for you and Brooks.

Lila: Thanks, Fallon.

I grab a disinfectant wipe and clean the counter where Cat had been. Once my workspace is spotless, I discard the used wipe in the trash and finish collecting the ingredients for the meatloaf. I carry them over to my workstation, along with a mixing bowl and baking pans.

When I’m in the kitchen, I lose track of the world around me. The rhythm of chopping vegetables, the sizzle of oil in a pan, and the fragrant smells that fill the room when a dish is cooking is almost meditative. These moments are my sanctuary, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Normally, I don’t cook with music on, but being in the apartment alone for the past ten days has made me crave some kind of distraction other than scary movies and true crime podcasts.

I connect my phone to the built-in speakers and hit play on my favorite soundtrack.

Now that my workspace is free of uninvited furballs, I begin prepping the meatloaf as I hum along to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” I sway my hips, moving to the rhythm, stirring the ingredients along to the beat.

My hands move on their own accord, combining the ingredients with ease. After years of practice, my instincts areprecise, and smell, taste, and muscle memory have replaced any recipe or measurements for my tried-and-true dishes.

Once I’ve stirred everything, I take the pans I’ve prepared and scoop a handful of the mixture into the bottom of each one.

As the chorus hits on the song, I can’t resist singing along. My voice is a little off-key but full of enthusiasm, throwing my arms into the air like I’m on stage.

The thud of footsteps breaks my concentration, far too heavy and deliberate to belong to Cat. When I glance over my shoulder, Harrison is standing in the doorway, his gaze fixed on me and his expression unreadable. My traitorous heart skips a beat, and a blush creeps up my neck as I clutch my chest.

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