Page 10 of The Maine Event (Romancing the Workplace #2)

FIVE

The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee swirls around me as I settle into a cozy corner booth at the local café just two blocks from my motel.

My laptop glows invitingly, earbuds are secured, light jazz is playing, and a stack of notebooks sits ready for any brilliant ideas that might strike. It’s time to get to work.

“One black coffee and a blueberry muffin, please.” I smile at the waitress, my fingers already flying across the keyboard.

Through a friend of a friend of someone who used to share a gym locker with him, I’ve managed to get the personal email address of one of the senior techs in the new product development division at Harcourt Foods.

He’s not the decision maker, but if I can paint a convincing picture of what’s possible, he could prove to be an ally on the inside.

I’ve sent a teaser pitch, now it’s just a waiting game for his reply.

The real test will be trying to use that meeting to get some face time with Old Man Harcourt himself—a notoriously prickly individual, I’m realizing as I unearth more and more of his previous interviews.

I’m beginning to think he may call for my flayed body to be strung up on a flagpole for even suggesting the largest frozen chicken producer on the Eastern Seaboard diversifies into non-meat alternatives.

It’s a gamble for sure, but I’ve done it with a hamburger chain, why not frozen meals?

I glance up at the TV mounted on the wall, wincing at the news report.

“…the volcanic eruption continues to wreak havoc on air travel, with all flights grounded indefinitely as the ash cloud spreads further across the US…”

Fantastic. Looks like I’m stuck in Maine for the foreseeable. But I can’t let a little thing like a natural disaster derail my career. Harcourt’s yet-to-be-invented non-chicken line is counting on me. Cluck on, Rachel.

I pull up their current product info and start brainstorming taglines, muttering to myself.

“Harcourt Alternatives— always fresh, never frozen…wait, that doesn’t make sense for a frozen food company.

Okay, how about…Feelin’ Peckish? Harcourt’s Eggplant Lasagna is Delish!

Ugh, that’s terrible. C’mon Rach, you can do better. ”

I nibble on my muffin, tapping my pen against the notebook.

This is usually when creative genius strikes, but so far, all I have is a page full of crossed-out scribbles and increasingly desperate doodles of chickens with broccoli florets for legs.

I’m just about to give up and order another coffee when my phone buzzes with an incoming call.

Unknown number. My heart leaps. Could it be him?

“Rachel Holmes speaking,” I answer, attempting to sound both professional and nonchalant.

“Ms. Holmes, this is Jenna from Harcourt Foods Marketing. We received your meeting request from Paul on the product team, and we would be delighted to meet with you. Are you available the day after tomorrow, ten a.m. at our headquarters?”

I do an internal happy dance while maintaining my composed tone. “That would be perfect, Jenna. I look forward to meeting with your team and discussing how we can elevate Harcourt’s brand to new heights.”

“Wonderful. We’ll see you then, Ms. Holmes.”

As I end the call, I can’t stop the grin from spreading across my face.

This is my chance to prove myself, to show everyone at Channing Gabriel that even when stuck in the middle of nowhere, Rachel Holmes always gets results.

I have a lot of work ahead of me to prep for this pitch, but I’m ready for the challenge.

Harcourt Foods, get ready to meet your future.

Energized by the call, I gather my things and head back to the motel, my mind already beginning to structure how I want to deliver the message.

We’ll just ignore the small but crucial fact that I have no idea yet what it is I’m pitching.

As I approach my room, I notice the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign still hanging on the doorknob.

Strange, I could’ve sworn I removed it this morning.

I step inside and my suspicions are confirmed—the bed remains unmade, towels lay strewn on the bathroom floor, and my used coffee cup sits untouched. Sighing, I drop my bag and make my way back to the reception desk to seek out James.

As I round the corner, I spot a small commotion near the elevators. It’s Dan, looking slightly harried as a middle-aged woman thrusts a paper and pen at him, gushing excitedly. He obliges with a tight smile, scribbling his autograph before politely excusing himself.

Intriguing. Shaking my head, I approach the front desk and relay my housekeeping issue. The young receptionist apologizes profusely, assuring me the room will be cleaned immediately.

Back in my room, curiosity gets the better of me.

I pull out my laptop and type ‘Dan Rhodes’ into the search bar.

My eyes widen as the results flood in—profile pieces in The Washington Post and Wall Street Journal , fan sites, and tabloid articles.

Turns out, Dan isn’t just famous, he’s soap opera royalty.

I dial my mom’s number, still processing this newfound information. She picks up on the second ring

“Hey sweetie, how’s Maine treating you?”

“Mom, you’ll never guess who I’ve been running into at the hotel. Dan Rhodes.”

There’s a beat of silence, then an ear-piercing squeal. “THE Dan Rhodes? From Malibu Lagoon? Oh, Rachel, you have to marry him! Immediately.”

I roll my eyes, chuckling. “Slow down, Mom. He may have played the perfect husband on screen, but real life is a different story. Besides, I’m here for work, not romance.”

“Well, you never know, darling. Fate works in mysterious ways.”

I stare at the error message blinking on the motel’s ancient printer.

Fault E17 , amazing, like I know what that is or how to fix it.

There’s paper in the tray, no visible paper jam, and it’s plugged in.

I need these copies of my pitch for Harcourt Foods, but it looks like this hunk of junk has other ideas.

“Everything okay?” Dan’s voice startles me. I didn’t even hear him approach.

“Oh, hey. Yeah, it’s just this printer…” I gesture helplessly at the stubbornly silent machine. “I wanted to print some copies of my presentation, but it’s not cooperating.”

Dan glances at the printer, then back at me with a gentle smile. “I don’t think that’s worked this decade; I’d hazard a guess you’re the first guest to even try. Look, there’s a perfectly good printer at my place. I’d be happy to print those out for you.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t impose like that.” But even as I say it, I’m thinking about how much I need those copies.

“It’s no trouble at all. Here…” He extends his hand. “I can take your flash drive, print them, and bring them right back.”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening around the small drive. It contains all my work, my ideas. Handing it over feels strangely intimate. Dan senses my unease.

“Or, you can always come too,” he offers. “I’ll even throw in dinner. Nothing fancy. I’m cooking for Chloe anyway, but I make a mean spaghetti carbonara.”

Against my better judgment, I find myself nodding. “Okay. Yeah, that would be great, actually. Thank you.”

Dan’s car is right out front. When I exit the motel and head into the lot, the sky seems…gray. Is this the ash cloud, or is it just dull and overcast? The more I stare up at the clouds, the more I convince myself that I can see tiny particles of ash.

“Storm’s coming,” Dan confirms as he blips the remote to unlock the car.

He turns the engine on, and I’m hit by a blast of loud music. Dan fumbles with the buttons on the dash and turns it down. “Sorry, Chloe’s been practicing her song non-stop. I think I know it so well I could perform it myself.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Gotta give the next generation a chance. As much as I would love to.”

“Would you,” I push, genuinely intrigued. “Love to, I mean. Do you miss it?”

“Acting?” Dan’s eyes flick across to me before he looks back at the road. “No. Those days are gone. Different life. I have Chloe to look after. The house.”

“Those sound like excuses.”

“They are excuses. Well… they’re reasons.

” Dan looks over again, “Acting is more than just your time on set in front of the camera. When you’re filming a series, it’s relentless.

Ten months of fourteen, sometimes sixteen-hour days.

New scenes come in from the writers and you’ve got like three hours to learn it.

Scene after scene after scene. And then there’s being so far from home, stuck in a motel room or a trailer.

After the fourth week of food delivery from the same restaurant, you’ve tasted everything off the menu twice. No. Not for me. Not anymore.”

I don’t know if I’ve hit a nerve or just sent Dan on a little nostalgia trip back in time, but he drives in silence the rest of the way, and I’m not sure how to segue into another topic.

We pull up in the drive, and as I step out of the car, I get to really see the house properly in the light of day.

Dan’s property sits gracefully at the edge of a rocky shoreline.

Its weathered gray shingles and white trim glow softly under the late afternoon sun.

A wide, wrap-around porch offers a perfect view of the Saco River, with the outdoor chairs we sat on last night neatly arranged on the decking.

The house itself is timeless, blending coastal charm with rustic elegance.

Large picture windows capture the view of the pine forest on the opposite bank, the scent of salt air from the ocean wafts right up to my nose like a welcome embrace.

What I hadn’t noticed when we sat outside last night was the gravel path that winds down through the backyard to the boathouse, perched just above the waterline, its faded barn-red paint worn by decades of salt-laced sea breezes.

Beyond it, I spot a small wooden dock that stretches out to meet the lapping water. But there’s no boat.