Chapter 2
THREE MONTHS LATER
A s soon as the leasing agent turns the corner, I lean against the cold brick wall with a heavy sigh. It’s barely two o’clock, and I’m ready to call it a day with some popcorn, a cold Diet Coke, and a new horror movie that’s now streaming.
A dull throb pulses in my head, courtesy of the agent’s endless chatter, and my toes are frozen from trudging through the snow to see overpriced apartments with peeling paint and drafty windows. I thought nothing could be more challenging than searching for a flat in London, but New York takes it to a whole new level.
When I arrived a few months ago, I was lucky enough to find a reasonably priced apartment in Manhattan. The lack of a lease should have been a giant red flag, but I didn’t think much of it until my landlord announced that I was being evicted to make room for their cousin. The worst part? I only have two weeks to find a new place that doesn’t come with a million-dollar price tag or a rat infestation. Which is why I spent the morning trailing a leasing agent, touring one dismal place after another.
The first listing we visited boasted “natural light,” but the reality was a dim trickle of sunlight through a cracked window facing a brick wall. Meanwhile, the “affordable” studio was sandwiched between a karaoke bar and a 24-hour gym. The worst place came last—a so-called kitchen reduced to a sliver of countertop squeezed between the fridge and the bathroom door, with no room for a cutting board. The lack of kitchen space wouldn’t be a problem if I weren’t a private chef who tests recipes at home, and takes photos for the cookbook I’m hoping to publish someday.
I wouldn’t be in this mess if I’d stayed in London instead of making the impulsive decision to move to New York. I’ve only been back to the States a few times for catering events since I lived in Florida for a few years after high school. Which is where I went to culinary school and met Theo. Once he opened his own restaurants in Europe, I went back to London to work for him.
Leaving behind a lucrative position with Theo Townstead, who’s now a world-renowned chef, and incredible boss, along with a flat in the heart of the city, might seem foolish to some. But the drive to make it on my own outweighed everything else.
My dream is to open an allergy-friendly restaurant where people with food sensitivities can eat without fear of cross-contamination. My mom had a severe nut allergy, and I saw firsthand how frustrating it was for her to eat out and wonder if her meal would cause a reaction.
When I was ten, my parents brought me to New York, and I still remember my mom’s voice when she told me this is the city where dreams come true. After my parents passed, I made a promise to myself that one day I’d return and turn my dream of opening a restaurant into reality, no matter what it took.
Right now, I’m questioning if it was all worth the risk.
My phone chimes, breaking the silence, and I smile when I see Lila’s name appear on the screen. No matter what kind of day I’m having, she always knows how to cheer me up.
We first met when I catered a wedding a few years ago at Whispering Pines Inn, a popular venue in Vermont, where she works as an event planner. We clicked instantly, and despite living in different countries until recently, we’ve become best friends.
Lila: How’s the apartment search going?
Fallon: Looks like my new place will either be a glorified broom closet with a view of a brick wall or I’ll be cooking in the dark on the edge of the sink.
Lila: That bad huh?
Fallon: I’m one showing away from moving back to London. Remind me why I thought coming to New York was a good idea?
Lila: Because you wanted a new adventure!
Fallon: The next time I decide to spontaneously move to another country, please stage an intervention.
Fallon: As my best friend, it’s your job to stop me from making impulsive decisions.
Lila: Duly noted. I’ll get right on setting up a “Stay Put” hotline for when you start daydreaming about your next move. If that fails, I can always padlock your bedroom door.
Fallon: I appreciate the support.
Lila: I’ve got your back always. Even if it means becoming your full-time warden.
Fallon: Aww, you really do care.
Lila: Someone has to keep you out of trouble.
As I’m typing a reply, my phone rings with a call from an unknown number. Normally, I’d send it to voicemail, but I’m waiting to hear back on several private chef opportunities that I applied for.
“Hello, this is Fallon speaking,” I answer.
“Ms. Hayes, this is Cabrina, Harrison Stafford’s assistant. Do you have a moment to speak?”
What could she possibly want?
The last time we spoke was three months ago, the day before I flew to Aspen Grove as a favor to Theo. What I didn’t anticipate was running into Harrison again, the man who still makes my blood boil. Ten years should have been enough to forget, but the memories still linger, sharp and bitter.
I tighten my grip on the phone, taking a slow breath to keep my annoyance in check.
“How can I help you?”
“Mr. Stafford wants to meet with you to further discuss the possibility of having you as his private chef, if you’re still available, that is.”
I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to argue. The nerve of that man is unbelievable. I made it clear when I was in Aspen Grove that I had no interest in working for him. He explicitly expressed that he felt the same way, so I can’t figure out why he’s suddenly treating this like an opportunity I’d jump at. And the gall of him to even think I’m still available? Absurd.
It doesn’t matter that I am.
“I appreciate you reaching out, but Mr. Stafford and I agreed that I wasn’t the right fit,” I say, confused.
“He’s hoping you’ll reconsider,” Cabrina says, followed by the soft rustle of papers in the background. “Your qualifications are unmatched, and we haven’t found anyone else with your experience in gluten-free cuisine.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
How did she know that was the right thing to say? I figured when I moved to New York it would be easy to find clients, which at first it was, but I quickly learned that I’m not content working for those without dietary restrictions. It’s much more rewarding spending my time helping those who benefit from my specialty.
“I understand Mr. Stafford isn’t the easiest person to get along with,” Cabrina admits with a half-hearted laugh when I don’t respond. “That said, he pays incredibly well, and the hours are flexible, given his frequent travel schedule. It would mean a lot if you’d at least meet with him.”
My resolve wavers as my gaze drifts to the apartment building I just toured. Finding anything decent within my current budget seems impossible. Cabrina said the pay is generous, so hearing Harrison out can’t hurt—it’s not like I’m going to accept the job.
I close my eyes, my grip tightening on the phone. “I’ll come by to speak with Mr. Stafford, but I’m not making any promises.”
“Thank you so much,” she exclaims. “You won’t regret this.”
I already do.
I glance up at the imposing building, the glass-and-steel exterior gleaming under the afternoon sun. The modern design stands out against the surrounding historic architecture. Inside, the lobby boasts polished marble floors and high ceilings accented by contemporary art and geometric light fixtures. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the walls, flooding the space with natural light, and leather lounge chairs are arranged along the edges of the room for visitors.
As I approach the large reception desk near the bank of elevators, a security guard in a navy uniform looks up from his screen and gives me a courteous nod.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Stafford,” I say with a small smile.
“I’ll need your name and identification for verification.”
“Certainly. It’s Fallon Hayes,” I say, taking out my driver’s license to hand it to him.
He glances down at his computer, typing on his keyboard before printing a temp badge and handing it to me, along with my ID.
“The last elevator on your right will take you directly to Mr. Stafford’s reception area on the top floor,” he directs.
I fasten the badge on my jacket. “Thanks.” I stand a little taller as I move toward the elevator.
When I step inside, a soft chime rings, and the doors automatically close.
Cabrina sent a follow-up email after our call with instructions on how to get here, and I had just enough time to stop by my apartment and change into a black pencil skirt and ivory sweater.
I take a deep breath and glance at myself in the door’s reflection, smoothing down the skirt, trying to ward off my nerves. I’m going to speak with Harrison and then leave. That’s all there is to it. I can’t let any amount of money change my mind about the position. I refuse to back down. I’m here to prove that he doesn’t affect me anymore and that I’m not intimidated by him.
The problem is that the memories of our weekend together keep surfacing, unwelcome and persistent.
I check my watch again. Twenty minutes have passed, and still no sign of Harrison. The Huskies’ event is long over, and I overheard another player mention the team was headed to a club. I can’t help but wonder if Harrison stood me up to hang out with his buddies—or a puck bunny.
When the temp agency offered me a job waiting tables for a hockey team tonight, I almost turned it down. It doesn’t matter that I need the money for culinary school.
My ex, Jeremy, plays for the Stormbreakers, the Huskies’ biggest rivals. I followed him to the States after he signed a pro contract, but shortly after we arrived, he decided he wasn’t ready for a committed relationship and broke up with me.
He left a bad taste in my mouth when it comes to hockey players in general. So, when I ran into Harrison tonight, I was already skeptical. Now I’m starting to think it was a mistake to agree to meet him. I’m halfway to the front door when I hear shouting behind me.
“Elizabeth, wait.” The sound of my first name makes me flinch.
After my parents passed and I moved in with my grandmother, she insisted I use it. One day, I’m going to change it and never look back.
I turn around to find Harrison running toward me with a bouquet of white tulips in hand.
“Sorry I’m late. I spent the last thirty minutes trying to find a place nearby that sells flowers.” He holds them out. “These are for you.”
Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I’m taken by surprise by the sweet gesture.
I take a bottle of Dom Pérignon out of my purse. “I got you something too.”
He takes it, giving me the flowers in exchange. “This is amazing. Didn’t think you had it in you to sneak a bottle,” he chuckles.
“I didn’t,” I confess with a shrug. “The supervisor stashed a whole box in the closet for themselves, and I think he was worried I’d report him if he didn’t let me have one.”
“Either way, I’m impressed,” Harrison says. “I hope you don’t mind, but I grabbed takeout from a place nearby, including your six-pack of Diet Coke. Thought we could eat at the park across the street. There’s a game going on at the basketball court, so all the lights are still on. You must be starving.”
The weather in Florida is perfect for May, so it’s a great night to eat outside.
“That would be great.” I smile, pushing a piece of hair behind my ear.
He holds open the door, ushering me outside. “Sounds good, after you.”
I think I’ve severely misjudged this man, and I’m looking forward to getting to know him better. There’s no telling where the night will take us, but I’m open to seeing where things go.
The elevator lurches, and I quickly steady myself.
That memory reminds me how much I hate the name Elizabeth. My grandmother claimed it was more proper, though I suspect it was only another way to spite my mother. For years after I moved out, I stuck with it since Jeremy only ever knew me as Elizabeth. But after my weekend with Harrison, I decided I was done letting others dictate my life. I legally changed my name to Fallon, reclaiming both my identity and my future.
I need to remember to stay guarded when I meet with Harrison and to ignore the traitorous thrum of my heart when we’re in the same room.
As I step off the elevator, Cabrina is waiting. I recognize her from the video call a few months ago when I was first offered the job. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, her posture is impeccable, and the tailored suit accentuates her confident demeanor.
She offers me a polite smile. “Welcome, Ms. Hayes. It’s so nice to finally meet you in person.” She extends her hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you in person as well,” I say, returning her smile.
A marble reception desk is set up nearby with fresh flowers on either end, with a monitor and computer in the center. Soft ambient music plays in the background, but there’s no designated waiting area, so I assume visitors are only called up when Harrison is ready for a meeting.
“We better not keep Mr. Stafford waiting,” Cabrina says, motioning for me to follow as she heads down a hallway leading to a set of doors, her heels clicking against the wood floor.
“Right,” I mumble, jogging after her.
My heart pounds with every step we take toward his office. I’m second-guessing my decision to even come here. Even though I have no intention of accepting Harrison’s offer, part of me wants to give him a taste of his own medicine of what it’s like to be led on. That thought is what drives me forward.
“Here we are,” Cabrina announces cheerfully.
I lift my gaze to see her standing in front of a looming set of oak doors. She pushes one of them open, waving me inside.
“Good luck,” she whispers before shutting the door behind her.
Guess I’m on my own now.
I swallow thickly as I look ahead at Harrison. He’s at his desk, focused on his computer, his fingers flying across the keys. His hardened expression is a far cry from the cocky hockey player with an easy grin. The man before me appears carved from stone, nothing like the carefree athlete who could light up a room with his laughter.
He’s somehow more attractive than before. His black hair is styled in a tapered fade, and he still has the physique of a hockey player—lean and athletic. He exudes confidence in his gray three-piece suit, his presence undeniably magnetic. I curse my libido for getting in the way of my mission to stay unaffected by him.
To distract myself, I take in the sprawling office, which makes the apartments I visited earlier seem impossibly tiny in comparison. Harrison’s desk sits in the front of a wall lined with shelves, stacked with architectural models and real estate reports. Modern art pieces add color to the space, and there’s a private lounge area complete with two chairs, a leather sofa, and a well-stocked bar cart. The space is bathed in natural light from the windows, offering a panoramic view of the city skyline. Its minimalist style makes a statement all on its own.
Harrison still hasn’t acknowledged me, and his blatant disregard is grating on my nerves.
I clear my throat loudly, and he finally lifts his head from his computer, his frown deepening when his gaze lands on me. “How did you get in here?” he demands.
A flicker of irritation rises, but I hold my ground, lifting my chin to meet his glare head-on.
“Hello, Mr. Stafford, it’s nice to see you too,” I reply with a curt nod.
He sighs, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk. “I asked you a question. How did you get in?”
“Your assistant showed me to your office,” I state the obvious.
“Why would she do that?”
He can’t be serious.
I knew he was a jerk, but I didn’t expect him to be this much of an asshole when he was the one who asked me to see him. How did I not see this coming—him luring me here under false pretenses and then pulling the rug out from under me just to make himself feel more powerful?
“This behavior is beneath even you, Harrison.” I point at him. “Don’t act like you weren’t the one who had Cabrina ask me to come here so we could talk about me being your private chef.”
He narrows his eyes, his jaw twitching as he rises from his leather chair, coming to stand in front of me. My palms grow clammy, but I force myself to stand tall, doing my best to steady my breathing as the anxiety tightens in my chest.
As the air between us thrums with the same invisible energy we shared ten years ago, my skin prickles with anticipation. I square my shoulders and meet his gaze with an unwavering resolve, readying for whatever comes next.
“When we saw each other last, we agreed it would be best if you didn’t work for me, did we not?” he asks sharply.
“That’s correct.”
He’s not referring to Cash’s wedding in Aspen Grove. A month ago, he showed up at a bar where I was catering an event on the upper level. He claimed it was a coincidence, but I don’t buy it. He was keeping tabs on me, but I have no idea why. Our conversation was short and tense, ending with us both agreeing, again, that it was a good thing I didn’t work for him.
“So, what makes you think I’d change my mind?” Harrison leans in, his voice low. “Better yet, why would you show up when you made it obvious that I was the last person you wanted to be around?”
I look awful in orange.
I absolutely cannot get arrested today.
Orange is not my color.
The mantra runs through my mind as I focus on keeping my expression neutral.
“Stop playing mind games and tell me why…” I pause at the soft click of the door, turning to see Harrison’s mom enter his office. Her ocean-blue eyes sparkle, and her brown hair is styled in a shoulder-length bob, complementing her tailored blazer.
Harrison visibly stiffens, surprise flashing across his face as she strides past him and pulls me in for a hug. “Fallon, it’s so good to see you, sweetheart.” I’m momentarily stunned before reciprocating the gesture, puzzled by her warm greeting, given we’ve only met once.
“You too,” I manage with a polite smile and glance between her and Harrison, trying to make sense of the situation. “Do you live in the city?”
I catered Cash and Everly’s event at the Staffords’ home in Aspen Grove, but that doesn’t mean they don’t split their time between two places.
“No, she doesn’t,” Harrison interrupts. “She’s here visiting, but I wasn’t expecting her to stop by my office today.”
Johanna moves to the lounge area, motioning for us to follow. “I had some urgent business to attend to,” she says cryptically, her upbeat tone leaving me skeptical. “Take a seat, Fallon.” She pats the cushion beside her and sets her purse on the armrest.
Harrison stops at the bar cart, pouring himself a drink. “Mom, do you want anything?” he asks with a resigned sigh.
Johanna shakes her head. “No, thank you.” Harrison doesn’t bother offering me one. “Is that necessary? It’s barely past two p.m.,” she adds.
“For this conversation. Absolutely,” he replies, sitting across from us. His ankle is crossed over his knee, the picture of ease, but tapping his fingers against his thigh show’s he’s just as unnerved as I am.
I tug my lower lip between my teeth. This was meant to be a quick conversation where I told Harrison I’m not interested in being his private chef and to never contact me again. Yet here I am, caught in a tense silence between him and his mom over something I haven’t figured out yet.
“Am I missing something?” I ask no one in particular.
Harrison runs a hand across his face. “I have a hunch my mom was the one who coordinated with Cabrina to get you here.” He fixes his gaze on his mom as he takes a measured sip of his drink. “Isn’t that right, Mom?”
Johanna lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug, her hands folded in her lap, appearing unbothered by the accusation. “I don’t see what the issue is. You haven’t been able to find a new personal chef who can handle specialty meals, and Fallon is as talented as they come.” She pauses to flash me an approving smile. “I don’t pretend to understand your initial reluctance, but I won’t stand by and let you miss the opportunity to work with someone who not only understands your dietary restrictions but can provide gluten-free meals without the risk of contamination.”
Harrison leans forward, placing his glass on the coffee table, making a point to use a coaster.
“Mom, I appreciate the concern, but I don’t—”
She holds out her hand, fixing him with a pointed expression. “Need I remind you about last week, when the food service company you hired mixed up your meals, leaving you in the ER for hours, unable to stand because of the severity of the reaction?”
Despite my grievances with Harrison, I sympathize with him. My mom made several trips to the emergency room for her nut allergy when I was a kid, and a friend I lived with during culinary school had celiac disease. I’ve witnessed firsthand the toll food sensitivities can take on a person when they’re experiencing a severe reaction.
Which might explain why I find Johanna’s interference unexpectedly sweet. Most people brush off food allergies, particularly celiac disease, as a lifestyle trend, but Johanna is truly concerned. That doesn’t mean I want to work for Harrison. He’s still a brute, and no job is worth sacrificing my sanity, even if it offers the chance to specialize in gluten-free cooking like I wanted.
“Johanna, I really appreciate you thinking of me, but trust me, I’m not the best fit for the job,” I say.
She waves me off. “Nonsense. Your cooking is exceptional, and you’re one of the few who can make gluten-free beef Wellington taste good. That’s a rare gift, sweetheart.”
Why does she have to be so nice? Harrison could stand to learn a thing or two from her about how to treat people. And the worst part is, her sincerity makes it that much harder to turn her down.
I place my hand over my heart. “I appreciate the compliment, but I’m afraid I can’t accept.”
She purses her lips as she studies me. “Do you mind me asking why? Is it a scheduling conflict?”
This woman has persistence down to an art form.
Since I’ve been selective about my clientele, I only have a handful of part-time meal prep accounts. Occasionally, I work out of a client’s home, and I have several upcoming gigs for the holidays, but no one I work with daily.
“Availability isn’t the issue,” I admit, stumbling over my words. “But I might have to move out of the city, and if that happens, I’ll need to find new clients.”
I sink further into the sofa with a resigned sigh, casting a sideways glance at Harrison. Sharing personal details about my life wasn’t part of the plan, but it’s definitely better than having to explain that her son’s a Casanova who uses women and then leaves like a coward.
“Don’t you like living in Manhattan?” Johanna asks.
“I love it here, but I’m currently in between places, and affordable housing is hard to come by in the city.”
It’s embarrassing to admit my options are quickly dwindling. I’ve spent four days searching for a new apartment, and I’m no closer to finding a new place.
I glance at the ground, avoiding Harrison’s scrutinizing gaze. The last thing I need is for him to judge me without knowing all the facts. Not all of us can be billionaire ex-hockey players turned real estate moguls with limitless resources at our disposal.
“I have the perfect solution,” Johanna says, clapping her hands together. “You can stay with Harrison. He has more than enough space, and it’ll make the commute a breeze,” she adds with a chuckle.
My mouth falls open. “What?” At the same time, Harrison responds with a sharp, “No.”
I’m speechless, sure I must have misheard her. There’s no way she just suggested that I move in with her son.
Harrison shakes his head, raking a hand through his hair. “Mom, it’s nice of you to want to help Fallon, but she’s not moving in with me,” he states flatly.
While I agree with him, the coldness in his tone stings more than it should. He’s the one who hurt me, yet he’s acting as if I’m the one to blame. It stirs up old insecurities that I’ve buried deep, reminding me of the fear of being cast aside because I’m not good enough.
Thankfully, Johanna saves me from wallowing in self-pity when she asks Harrison, “Why not?”
“It’s not a live-in position,” he says.
She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “You’re the boss, make it one,” she challenges. “Your penthouse takes up an entire floor, so there’s plenty of space for you both, and it’s centrally located, so Fallon would be close to everything.”
Harrison groans. “Mom, please drop it.”
I bite back a laugh. Johanna is a force to be reckoned with, and its entertaining watching Harrison trying to hold his ground against her unyielding persistence. My money is on Johanna, which doesn’t bode well for me either.
Maybe she’d ease up if she knew that Harrison and I have a past. It’s obvious he didn’t think I was important enough to mention. Granted, we only spent one weekend together, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
I only wish I understood why she’s so adamant that I accept the position. Private chefs in New York City are a dime a dozen, and there are at least a handful who make exceptional gluten-free meals. It’s surprising that Harrison hasn’t found a replacement yet. Then again, if he’s as gruff with everyone else as he is with me, it’s easy to see why others might hesitate to accept the position, even if the compensation is unmatched.
I hate to admit that if I wasn’t paying rent, I’d be able to save more for my restaurant. Right now, I’ll be lucky to start with a food truck or café, but I can always expand later.
“What do you say, Fallon?” Johanna asks. “You could move in as early as next week.”
Harrison grabs his drink and downs the remainder in one gulp. “Don’t you have plans with Presley this afternoon?” he asks Johanna, not giving me a chance to answer.
She glances down at her watch. “Not for another hour. That gives us plenty of time to sort this out.” She leans over to pat me on the knee.
Harrison clenches his jaw as he watches. I flash him a smug smile, relishing in the fact that his mother’s kindness toward me is clearly getting under his skin.
“What’s it going to take for you to let this go?” he asks Johanna.
She grins as though she’s already gotten her way. “For you to hire Fallon and have her stay in your penthouse,” she says, not missing a beat.
Harrison scowls in my direction when I chuckle. “Care to share what you find so amusing?”
If I were to accept his offer—and I’m not saying I will—it would be for the generous salary and the accommodations. The chance to rattle him would just be an added bonus.
My shoulders tremble with nervous laughter. “Just picturing the two of us under the same roof and wondering if either of us would survive.”
“Exactly,” Harrison mutters. “Which is why it’s a terrible idea.”
“What? Afraid you couldn’t handle the challenge?” I taunt.
What am I doing?
There isn’t anything worse than spending more time with Harrison, much less living with him. It’s bad enough that my pulse quickens and a swarm of butterflies erupts in my stomach whenever he glances my way. It’s a shame my body hasn’t gotten the memo that I can’t stand him. Which begs the question, why am I encouraging him?
Think of the bigger picture.
If I want to achieve my goal of owning a restaurant, I’ll have to save up far more than I have right now. Taking on a client like Harrison, even if it means letting go of my part-time ones, would help me accumulate what I need much faster. And if I didn’t have to pay rent, I could focus all my energy on building my savings. No dream is achieved without sacrifice, and I can’t let my emotions derail my future—even if it means putting up with someone I’d rather avoid entirely.
Harrison shifts in his seat, a challenge flashing in his gaze. “You underestimate me. The real question is, can you? Doesn’t seem like you do well under pressure.”
I bite my lower lip, swallowing the retort threatening to escape, mindful of Johanna’s presence.
“There’s only one way to find out,” I challenge.
Things are about to get interesting.