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

Chapter 14

“C at, get down from there,” I snap with my hands on my hips. “I’m trying to make meatloaf for Walter, and the last thing he wants is your fur in his dinner.”

He yawns, lazily stretching out on the counter, unimpressed with my scolding.

“Would you rather be out in the cold?” I ask, gesturing toward the snow falling outside. “Because you’re making it hard to resist sending you on a little winter vacation.”

Cat gives me a bored meow, refusing to budge. He’s had plenty of time to size me up, coming to the conclusion that I’m not going to actually follow through on my threats, no matter how much I wish I could.

With a defeated sigh, I head to the fridge to pull out the chicken and rice I made earlier. Buying store-bought cat food didn’t sit right with me after reviewing the questionable ingredients of some of the most popular brands. So, I’m sticking to homemade meals, even though Cat hasn’t exactly shown his gratitude.

The second the container lid comes off, I glance over to see Cat lift his head, his eyes trained on the food in my hand . Aside from our shared affinity for horror films, meals are the only other area where we’ve found common ground. It’s also my secret weapon to getting the little rascal to cooperate.

I take a small glass dish from the cupboard, scoop some chicken and rice in it, and take it to the other side of the kitchen, away from where I’ll be cooking. After setting the bowl on the ground, I go about my business, putting the leftovers in the fridge.

Sure enough, Cat jumps off the counter and races to his dinner, not even bothering to acknowledge me.

I roll my eyes. Unbelievable.

I take out my phone, shooting a message to Lila.

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 are precise, 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.

“Oh my god, you scared me,” I say, trying to sound unaffected.

“Sorry, it wasn’t intentional,” he replies.

I nod, going back to molding the meatloaf into the pans and transferring the loaves into the waiting oven, pretending that I’m not affected by Harrison’s unexpected presence.

As I wash my hands at the sink, the rustle of fabric and movement in my peripheral vision weaken my resolve. I glance over to find Harrison slipping off his jacket and draping it over a barstool. I’m unable to take my eyes off him as he rolls up his sleeves, revealing those damn forearms of his again—strong, veiny, utterly distracting. I swear they should be illegal.

My pulse betrays me, kicking into overdrive, and I bite the inside of my cheek, cursing how he always manages to rattle me with so little effort.

“Careful, or you might turn the kitchen into a swimming pool,” Harrison says with an amused tone.

My brows knit together, realizing my hands are still under the faucet. “Oh.” With a small shake of my head, I turn off the water and grab a towel to dry them.

“Weren’t you supposed to be in Aspen Grove until after the New Year?” I ask.

He smirks. “Missed me that much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I reply with a forced laugh, busying myself with straightening the dish towel.

After everything, I should be immune to him by now, but instead, I’m acting like a teenager with a silly crush. I should be fortifying my defenses, not letting my emotions get the better of me, and opening doors I swore I’d sealed shut.