Page 1 of The Maine Event (Romancing the Workplace #2)

ONE

I take a deep breath and stride into the conference room, my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor.

The air is thick with the scent of expensive coffee and barely concealed skepticism.

A dozen fast food executives sit around the sleek glass table, their arms crossed, their gazes expectant.

They don’t think I can sell them on this. That’s adorable.

I flash my best boardroom smile and place my portfolio on the table with a crisp thud.

“Gentlemen. Imagine a plant-based burger that not only tastes amazing, but also aligns perfectly with your brand’s commitment to sustainability,” I say, my voice clear and strong.

“Our campaign will position your new offering as the go-to choice for health-conscious and environmentally aware consumers.”

A pause. One executive raises an eyebrow, as if I’ve just suggested they start serving kale milkshakes.

I hold their gaze and continue. “It’s not just another burger—it’s the burger that changes the conversation.”

As I delve into the details of the proposed marketing strategy for their new healthy choice menu item, I can see the executives nodding along, any objections they had planned to raise melting away.

I highlight the key selling points—the burger’s delicious flavor, its nutritional benefits, and its potential to attract a new demographic of customers.

You get a sixth sense about whether your pitch is landing right with an audience and, not to toot my own horn too hard…

seven minutes in, I have everyone in the room eating out of my hand.

“By partnering with influencers in the wellness space and leveraging social media, we’ll generate buzz and drive demand for your plant-based option,” I explain, gesturing to the colorful slides projected behind me.

“This is an opportunity to establish your brand as a leader in the fast food industry’s shift toward healthier, more sustainable offerings.

In a nutshell, my team and I will position your product as a burger that’s good for you, good for the planet, and good for business. ”

The lead executive, a silver-haired man with a perpetual frown, clears his throat. “That’s… impressive.”

Damn right, it is.

The polite applause tells me I’ve nailed it. I field questions with ease, keeping my responses tight and strategic.

This is my playground, and I own it.

Just as we’re wrapping up, a man I hadn’t paid much attention to—a tall, dark-haired exec with the confident ease of someone used to getting what he wants—steps forward, smiling.

“Great presentation.” He offers his hand. “Lyle.”

I shake it, firm but brief. “Rachel Holmes.”

“You clearly know your stuff. I’d love to discuss it further. Maybe over dinner?” His smile is smooth, like he already knows the answer.

I return it, but mine is professional, unwavering. “I make it a policy not to mix business with pleasure.”

His expression falters for a split second before he recovers. “Well, that’s a pity.” He hands me his card. “But either way, I look forward to working with you.”

I tuck the card into my portfolio, already moving on. As I stride down the hallway, the familiar rush of success hums in my veins. One step closer to landing this account. One step closer to making partner. My personal life might be a barren wasteland, but my career? On fire.

The truth is, I've always been better at managing brands than people. Crafting narratives and selling ideas come as naturally to me as breathing, but building relationships? That’s where things get messy.

At work, everything follows a strategy—objectives, deliverables, measurable outcomes.

If a pitch doesn’t land, I can pinpoint why, learn from it, and try again.

But in my personal life? There’s no tidy PowerPoint presentation to guide me through the chaos of human connection.

I've spent years perfecting my professional image—the competent, confident, always-prepared woman who can sell anything to anyone. I know how to make an impression, how to leave a room buzzing with ideas and possibilities. But after hours, when the office lights dim and I’m alone in my immaculate, lonely apartment, I feel the weight of that polished veneer crushing me.

I think of my old friends, the ones who slowly drifted away while I was climbing the corporate ladder.

Birthday texts that went unanswered, dinner invites declined because of deadlines and meetings.

Now, even if I wanted to rekindle those friendships, I wouldn’t know where to start.

I’ve wrapped myself in my ambition like a safety blanket, convinced that I don’t need anyone.

But sometimes—just sometimes—I catch myself scrolling through social media, pausing on photos of people I used to know.

Laughing in crowded bars, holding hands on beach vacations, watching their kids take their first steps—living their best life.

And it hits me, sharp and unexpected: I’ve built a life so perfectly curated that I don’t really fit into it anymore.

I shove the thought away, focusing instead on the rush of victory from the pitch. There’s no room for self-pity today. I won them over, and that’s what matters. I’ll celebrate later—maybe with a glass of something expensive and a quiet toast to myself. After all, who else will?

As I stride down the hallway, still riding the high of the successful presentation, I catch sight of Helen through the glass walls of her office.

My boss is the picture of effortless authority, well put together in a tailored navy suit, her manicured fingers laced together.

But her expression is unreadable, and that— that —is unsettling.

“Rachel, sit down.”

I lower myself into the chair opposite her desk, still riding the post-pitch high. “What’s up? The meeting went well.”

“It did,” she agrees. “In fact, it went so well that I’m forcing you to take a vacation.”

I blink. “I’m sorry. You’re what ?”

Helen leans back, studying me like a puzzle she’s just figured out. “You haven’t taken a single day off in eighteen months. You need a break before you break. Two weeks. No arguments.”

“But—”

She holds up a hand. “Non-negotiable. Go read a book, reconnect with your family. Hell, get a hobby.”

I open my mouth, then close it. Helen is one of the few people on earth who can out-stubborn me. I could fight this, but I’d lose. And the truth is, there’s no one in my life demanding my time. No partner. No kids. Even my friendships have faded under the weight of work.

A convenient excuse not to face that reality.

“Fine.” I exhale. “But I’m not happy about it.”

Helen smirks. “I don’t expect you to be. Now get out of my office before I start to suspect you like being here. And who knows? Maybe you’ll surprise yourself and actually enjoy yourself.”

I let myself in with the key my sister Claire keeps hidden under a plastic rock that is, frankly, an insult to camouflage.

Technically, it’s Claire and Richard’s house—a big, modern place they bought after Lily was born.

They invited Mom to move in with them soon after.

She’d been on her own for decades, still living in the little house we all grew up in, and they didn’t like the idea of her rattling around in it alone.

This place had the space, and the logic was simple: more help with childcare for them, more company for her.

Still, the moment I step inside, it smells like Mom’s house—lavender and freshly baked cookies. A scent so deeply nostalgic it nearly knocks me sideways.

A familiar warmth wraps around me, tugging at memories I’d thought long buried.

The layout’s different, sure, but the feeling is the same.

And Mom’s touch is everywhere—the floral cushions, the knitted throw on the back of the couch, the armchair where she still reads the newspaper with her tea, just like she did back when we were kids.

Back then, I’d convinced myself that being the best—at school, at track, even at the annual science fair—was the only way to matter.

Mom never pushed me to be perfect, but I craved the reassurance of straight As and trophies as proof that I was doing something right.

Once, after winning the regional debate championship, Mom had hugged me so tight I thought I’d break, whispering how proud she was.

But all I could think about was the kid who came second, the way his face fell when they called my name.

In my mind, there was no room for mistakes or second place.

I thought that if I just worked hard enough, controlled every variable, I’d never have to feel that gnawing sense of inadequacy again.

Even now, standing in this familiar hallway, it’s hard to shake the compulsion to be the best—to outwork, outperform, and prove to everyone, including myself, that I’m worth the effort.

Maybe that’s why I never stopped pushing—why I buried myself in work instead of forming lasting relationships, why success became synonymous with self-worth. If I let up, even for a second, it might all unravel. And that’s a risk I’ve never been willing to take.

“Mom? Claire?” I call out.

Mom’s voice cuts through my thoughts, bringing me back to the present. “Rachel? You okay?”

I force a smile, shaking off the remnants of old insecurities. “Yeah, Mom. Just… had some time to spare.”

I find her in the living room, curled up in her armchair, eyes glued to the TV.

“Hey.” I move some toys out of the way and plop onto the couch beside her.

“Oh! Perfect timing. You have got to see this show I’m watching.”