If You Give a CEO a Chance (Aspen Grove #3)

Chapter 3

M y mom’s excited outburst rings out as I arch a brow at Fallon, totally caught off guard by her reply. Which is probably exactly what she wants.

“Does this mean you’ll take the job?” my mom presses.

“It does,” Fallon says, locking eyes with me, daring me to disagree. “But I have conditions.”

Of course, she does.

Every instinct tells me to put an end to this immediately, but I can’t. My mom is determined to get her way, and frankly, I can’t bring myself to shut her down. Add to that my refusal to let Fallon come out on top, and I’m inclined to go along with this charade.

“What conditions?” I ask.

Fallon hesitates briefly before she says, “I want an unlimited budget for ingredients. Quality should never be compromised, especially with gluten-free dishes.”

I can work with that.

“Okay. What else?”

She leans back in her chair, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “An additional ten percent added to my salary than what was originally offered when I interviewed a few months ago. Call it a premium for navigating a demanding work environment.”

Not only is she trying to get a rise out of me, but she’s also trying to swindle me in the process. I can’t decide if I’m impressed or annoyed. Fallon has a knack for forcing emotions to the surface I’d rather ignore. A battle rages inside me between putting her in her place or indulging the part of me that thrives on her challenging me.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, exhaling sharply. “Fine,” I mutter. “Is that all?”

“I’d like to bring some of my things to make it feel more like home.”

I bite back a groan. The idea of her moving into my space with all her things, sounds dreadful. But my mother’s bright smile as she watches our interaction stops me from protesting. If I mess this up, she’ll never let me hear the end of it. As long as Fallon keeps her things in her room and out of sight, I can live with that.

“If I agree, that’s it. No more conditions. Understood?” I tell Fallon.

She nods. “Deal.”

I extend my hand before my mom can interject. “But this is a trial run only. If things aren’t going well within a couple of months, we’re calling it off,” I say.

Fallon gives a casual shrug. “I can work with that.”

“This is so exciting, don’t you think, Harrison?” my mom chimes in, clasping her hands together, watching me expectantly.

I grit my teeth. “Sure.”

My days revolve around contracts, negotiations, and meetings. I’m skilled at making deals and getting the best outcome for myself and the company. Yet, when it comes to Fallon, I fold like a house of cards, especially when my mother is here leading the charge.

“We’ll have Cabrina send you the contract to review and instructions for moving in,” my mom says, patting Fallon on the arm.

“Great,” she says, standing up to leave.

As she exits my office with a deliberate sway to her step, I’m left asking myself how she charmed my mom into taking her side. And to make matters worse, she looks fucking edible in her fitted pencil skirt that hugs her body like a glove.

I’m not happy with the turn of events, but there’s no chance I’m backing down now. My pride won’t allow me, and it’s clear Fallon won’t be the one to give in either. If she wants to play games, she’s messing with the wrong man. I might have lost this battle, but I never lose the war.

“She’s lovely,” my mom remarks from her spot on the couch, a grin on her face as if she just won the lottery.

Unfortunately for me, my mom is right.

I glance over to find her staring at me with her lips curved into a knowing smile.

My palms grow clammy, and I adjust my cufflinks, clearing my throat. “You’ve got to stop interfering in my personal matters.” I maneuver around her, going to my desk. “It’s frustrating that you disregarded my decision not to work with Fallon.”

I should have suspected she was up to something when she said she was stopping by my office. She comes to town once a month to visit my little sister, Presley, but I’m usually tied up in meetings, so she doesn’t stop by here often.

Presley is a marketing associate at Sinclair Group, a large investment firm in New York City. She used to be the CEO’s assistant, but after three years of sidestepping their mutual attraction, a disastrous work trip to Aspen Grove ended up with them pretending to date when they visited our family in Aspen Grove. They’re now a couple and are hopelessly in love.

Cabrina’s email earlier about my open schedule this afternoon should have tipped me off that something was up. My schedule is never open. I should have assumed my mother would have my calendar rearranged to serve her agenda. She doesn’t like that I don’t have plans to settle down and plays matchmaker at every opportunity, no matter how inconvenient it is for me.

During my brief stint as a pro hockey player, I had several fleeting encounters with puck bunnies wanting nothing more than a night of fun, with no strings attached. When I transitioned to working at Stafford Holdings, I had a revolving door of casual flings, mainly used as arm candy at events. It was exhausting juggling work commitments and hollow connections that offered little satisfaction.

When my dad retired, I took over as CEO at Stafford Holdings, a role I’d been preparing for my whole life, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept my fate. I stopped making an effort to find dates for events or inviting women to spend the night with me. Running a multi-billion-dollar company leaves little room for a social life, let alone romance, and I’ve had no interest in pursuing one.

Admittedly, the only time I felt a connection strong enough to consider pursuing was with Fallon. Her quick wit and sharp tongue were a jolt to my system, and with a weekend free of obligations and a hotel suite at my disposal, I took the risk, unaware that a few days later, my world would be flipped upside down, and I’d never hear from Fallon again.

Until now.

My mom comes around my desk and stands next to where I’m drafting an email. “I’m your mother. Of course I’m going to worry about your well-being, and want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. Especially with your recent diagnosis. You have to be careful what you eat, and with the long hours you’re putting in at the office, it’s not realistic for you to manage that on your own. I’m confident Fallon is the right person for the job, so excuse me for pushing back when you’re being stubborn.”

“I love you, Mom, and I know your heart is in the right place. But commandeering my assistant, setting up a plan to hire a private chef I don’t want, and coercing me to let her move in is too much.”

Mom places her hand on my shoulder, waiting until I look at her before speaking. “Sweetheart, I’m not going to apologize for wanting you to be happy and healthy. For that to happen, you’ve got to make changes, and this is one of them.”

“I appreciate your concern, but shouldn’t you leave soon if you’re going to meet Presley?” I utter with a hint of annoyance.

My mom lifts a finger in warning, wearing a stern expression. “Harrison Ford Stafford, don’t you dare try and change the subject.” She’s exceptionally pushy today. “How do you think I felt when Cabrina called to tell me that you’d been rushed to the hospital last week? It took me a couple of hours to get here from Aspen Grove and made me sick to my stomach that I wasn’t closer.”

I take her hand in mind. “Mom, I’m fine. I promise.”

“For now, sure. But what if you experience another episode while you’re alone at home, with no one around to call for help? Wouldn’t you prefer to prevent it from happening again if you can?”

Her voice slightly trembles. “Would working with Fallon be so terrible even if it means giving me peace of mind?”

My god, she is good, I’ll give her that.

I release her hand, fiddling with a stack of papers on my desk, even though they’re already perfectly aligned. Mom watches me like a hawk, impatiently waiting for me to answer.

“Trust me, it would be an absolute disaster,” I answer honestly.

She flicks her hand dismissively. “Oh, hush, you’re being dramatic. The amazing food you’ll get out of it will outweigh any negatives of having her stay with you. Besides, you’re rarely home anyway.”

That’s beside the point. My apartment is my safe haven, the one place I have total control over how it looks. Everything has its place, and there’s no clutter or chaos to disrupt my peace. That’ll all change if I allow someone else into my space.

“Mom, I’m really—”

“Honestly, Harrison, will you stop being so difficult?” She sighs in exasperation. “Please do this for me.” She mirrors my niece, Lola’s classic puppy dog eyes.

“Good grief,” I mutter.

If persistence were an Olympic sport, my mom would take home the gold. She has an uncanny ability to push until I give in to her every request. While she has good intentions, she has a tendency to take things too far. After thirty-seven years, I should have mastered the art of saying no, but she makes it impossible, even when it means upending my life to avoid disappointing her.

“Fine,” I concede, throwing my hands up. “But if things go south, the trial period ends immediately.”

My mom chuckles. “We’ll see. Are you going to decorate the spare bedroom before she moves in?”

“No.”

“Sweetheart, it’s packed with your old hockey gear and stuff from college. Plus, the walls are bare, and there’s no furniture.”

“So? Isn’t giving Fallon a place to stay good enough? She can move my stuff into the closet.”

Why would I go out of my way for someone I don’t want there in the first place?

“That’s unacceptable,” my mom scolds. “But don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. Do you think Fallon would prefer cream or purple paint for the walls?” She pulls out a small notebook and pen from her purse and jots something down. “We’ll go with cream, it’s more neutral,” she says, answering her own question.

I sigh. “Would you listen if I told you we’re leaving the room as is?”

She pauses and reaches over to pat my cheek. “Not in the slightest.”

“Just great,” I mutter under my breath.

Once she’s finished writing, she puts her notebook back in her bag and glances at her watch. “Oh, goodness.” She picks up her purse and tosses it over her shoulder. “If I don’t go now, I’ll be late to meet with Presley.” She bends down to give me a side hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“I’ll work on the room tonight while you’re at work. Have a great night, sweetheart.” She beams as she waves goodbye.

“See you later, Mom.”

I recline back in my chair, exhaling deeply. She thinks that because she’s intervened with my siblings’ love lives, and they’ve all found their better halves in part thanks to her, it means I’m free game. But this has gone too far. I might not have a choice of having Fallon move in, but that doesn’t mean I have to make things easy on her. With any luck, she’ll hate living with me and decide to leave on her own.

I glance over at the movers, who are carrying in another load of boxes into my apartment. “How many could there possibly be?” I ask, my patience wearing thin.

“This is the last of it,” one of them calls over his shoulder.

“Thank god,” I mutter under my breath.

It’s been a week since I agreed to let Fallon move in, and I’m no less irritated by the predicament we’re in, especially now that she’s taking over my space. My once spotless living room is now unrecognizable, buried under a mountain of her things. When I was told she was having her stuff delivered, I didn’t expect a moving crew to show up and unload for two hours.

My jaw twitches when I take in the dozens of plants and herbs lining the wall, the pile of blankets Fallon carelessly tossed on the couch earlier, and the sea of boxes labeled “living room”. It’s enough to make my blood pressure rise just by looking at the mess.

Is it a crime that after a chaotic day at work, I want to come home to peace and order, where I can decompress and focus without any distractions? There’s a reason I asked the interior designer to avoid any unnecessary additions like plants, throw pillows, or extra furniture. Now, instead of a peaceful retreat, I’m surrounded by clutter, making my skin crawl.

When the movers finish, I give them a generous tip, sighing in relief when I shut the door behind them.

I’m ready to retreat to my home office when the sharp noise of cardboard tearing echoes from the kitchen. I go to investigate and find Fallon standing on a stepstool, digging through a box of spices on the counter.

At work, precision is non-negotiable. Every deal I close and the meetings I lead must be executed flawlessly. A single misstep or overlooked detail has serious consequences. I apply the same principle at home. A clean space leads to a focused mind. Disorder is a distraction, and I can’t afford the chaos that follows. Unfortunately, Fallon doesn’t seem to share my perspective, and her disregard for order has shattered the calm that I rely on to stay focused.

She’s changed into a hoodie and form-fitting lounge shorts. I stumble slightly when I notice from this angle, I have a view of her backside, the shorts clinging to her curves, distracting me with her perfect ass.

This could be a problem.

Aren’t chefs supposed to wear something more professional? The first one I hired wore slacks and a white shirt under their apron. Maybe I should impose a dress code for Fallon. The only problem is she lives here now, so it might prove difficult to demand she wear professional attire when she’s not on the clock.

She’s perched on a stool, pulling out a bottle of vanilla from the cabinet next to the stove and tossing it into the trash bin next to her, a sliver of creamy skin exposed where her hoodie lifts.

On second thought, why can’t I enforce a dress code?

This is my house, which means my rules are non-negotiable. Biding my time, I observe as she unpacks the rest of the box, rearranging the cupboard to make room for all of her spices.

“Why did you throw that out?” I ask, my voice cutting through the silence. “I already have an organization system in place and didn’t ask for you to replace anything.”

My last chef arranged the kitchen and pantry, and it’s what I’m used to. So, watching Fallon rearrange and throw things out without consulting me first is maddening.

“I’m updating your spice cupboard,” she says as she drops a jar of crème de tartar into the trash.

“Why?”

“Because some of these spice blends could have traces of gluten, and I’d rather not accidentally poison you,” she deadpans.

No, she’d rather do that on purpose.

“Do you really have to throw all of them out?”

“Yes.” Fallon takes her arm and sweeps the remaining items from my cabinet into the trash bin and unpacks the rest of the box, placing the new spices in the cupboard.

A muscle tightens in my jaw as she moves to the next cupboard, her eyes scanning the shelves before she reaches for the juicer on the top shelf. When it proves too far out of reach, she braces a hand on the counter and hoists herself up, abandoning the stool.

“What the hell are you doing?” I exclaim in alarm. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

I step toward her despite her waving me off. “I’m fine,” she insists.

With determination, Fallon pushes her hair out of her face. “Come on, just a little higher,” she mutters, reaching for the juicer. Her fingertips brush the edge, but it doesn’t budge. She shifts her weight, stretching herself just a little higher—until her foot slips. She lets out a sharp gasp as she teeters, but I’m already there, gripping her waist to steady her and lowering her to the floor. Her feet hit the ground with a soft thud, and she stands there, breathless, her posture rigid.

My hands linger on her waist, my fingertips brushing against her bare skin where her hoodie has ridden up again. The contact sends a jolt of awareness through me, and I quickly pull my hands away, schooling my expression when Fallon spins around to face me.

“You need to be more careful,” I say sharply. “And I hadn’t considered a uniform addendum to the contract, but maybe I should have.”

Fallon raises a brow as she steps toward me. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. That outfit”—I motion to her hoodie and shorts—“isn’t suitable for my private chef. Not to mention it’s the middle of winter.”

Am I being unreasonable? Possibly. Do I regret it? Not in the slightest. Fallon just arrived, and she’s already pushing all of my buttons. It could have something to do with watching her nearly face-plant onto the floor, and the fact that I’m even worried about her well-being just pisses me off more.

She tosses her head back, letting out a dry laugh. “Nope. Not happening, Mr. Hotshot. My wardrobe isn’t up for debate. I’m here to cook, not to conform to some archaic notion of what qualifies as professional attire, least of all when I’m off duty.” She jabs a finger into my chest. “If your ego can’t handle not being in control, that’s your problem, not mine.”

Ready to move on from this conversation, I say, “I have a conference call, I’ll be in my office. That and my bedroom are off-limits, are we clear?”

When she firstarrived at the apartment, I showed her around as we waited for the movers to arrive. I let her know which rooms were off-limits and pointed out the security cameras in the main living areas and my office.

“Crystal,” she retorts sharply.

“Do me a favor and leave the space exactly how you found it. I refuse to live in a disaster zone.”

“Got it, boss .”

When I join the conference call, my brothers, Cash and Dylan, are already waiting.

Dylan is the chief financial officer for Stafford Holdings, and Cash is the chief operating officer. It’s rare for all of us to be in the same room during meetings since Dylan works from home in Aspen Grove most days, and Cash is managing our European division from London.

“This is a first,” Cash says with a smirk. “Usually, I’m the one running late.”

He’s the fun-loving, carefree brother and the life of any party. When we were kids, he was in an accident that left him with a jagged scar on the left side of his face, spanning from his ear to his chin. My mom was worried it would affect his confidence. Spoiler alert—it had the opposite effect.

“Hey, big brother.” Dylan greets me with a nod. “I spoke with Mom earlier, and she said the big move was today. How did it go?” He attempts to hide his amusement but fails miserably, a grin spreading across his face.

“It’s not funny,” I deadpan. “She coerced me into letting Fallon move in. I figured she’d show up with a duffle bag and a couple of suitcases at most. I was wrong. The movers were here for two hours.”

Cash busts out laughing. “Oh, this is too good.”

“Will you cut it out?”

“Not a chance. You were Mom’s accomplice in scheming to get Everly and me together, so this is your well-earned karma.”

After reconnecting in Vegas led to an impromptu wedding, I convinced Cash and Everly to stay married during the merger of Stafford Holdings and Townstead International, the company Everly’s father owned. Their fake marriage quickly became real, and now they’re happily married and living in London.

“Earth to Harrison.” I snap my attention to the computer screen to find Dylan waving at the camera. Cash covers his mouth in an attempt to suppress a snicker.

“Enough,” I scold them.

Dylan rolls his eyes. “You know, brother, I recall being this bothered with Marlow when I first met her, and look how that turned out.”

She moved in next door to Dylan and stepped up to help care for his daughter, Lola, as her nanny. It didn’t take Dylan long to fall for Marlow, and they recently got engaged.

“Just because you’re both in relationships doesn’t mean I want the same thing,” I grumble.

That’s not true.

There was a time when having a family of my own felt like the ultimate dream. My parents’ love story was inspiring, and I grew up believing I’d find someone to share the same spark of magic they shared.

However, the knowledge that I would someday be the successor to a global empire has loomed over me since my dad dropped the bombshell when I was ten. Long before I fully comprehended what that meant, I carried the weight of our family’s legacy on my shoulders that my siblings didn’t have to.

Hockey became my way to escape the pressures of my future. After high school, I chased my dream of playing professionally, a rebellion against the life that had been laid out for me. But I was faced with a heavy dose of reality when I had to abruptly quit after my first and only season. I was forced to make a choice: work at Stafford Holdings, and prepare to one day take over as CEO when my dad retired, or make one of my brothers sacrifice their ambitions. The decision wasn’t hard. I traded my freedom for theirs, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“You have to admit it was clever of Mom to suggest Fallon stay with you,” Dylan says with a twinkle in his hazel eyes.

“Sure, except it’s not her house that’s being invaded,” I mutter.

“Oh, please, we both know Mom has other intentions in mind,” Cash adds.

“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.