Page 17 of The Maine Event (Romancing the Workplace #2)

EIGHT

The imposing, if slightly tired, brick and tiled facade of Harcourt Foods’ headquarters soars before me as I step out of the cab.

This time I pause to take it all in, already thinking about which angle we should use in the photo to announce the partnership with Channing Gabriel.

My heels click confidently across the well-worn concrete plaza, the spring breeze whipping strands of hair across my face.

It’s a far cry from the glass and steel office towers I usually visit.

But that’s one of the reasons I like the company.

They’re not trying to impress, or pretend to be something they’re not—they manufacture frozen food and sell it at an affordable price.

This straightforward, no-frills approach is refreshingly honest and nets them hundreds of millions of dollars a year in revenue.

I allow myself a small, triumphant smile as I reach the front doors.

Securing a meeting with the patriarch himself, Old Man Harcourt, after one presentation to his product team?

I must have really wowed them with my pitch.

I like to think I’m good, but boy, if I pull this off, it will be the fastest close.

Like, ever. Not to mention winning this account will dwarf Zoe’s accomplishments with GreenShoots—hello healthy meat- alternative frozen food, hello even healthier monthly retainer… Hello Rachel Holmes, partner .

I try to calm the butterflies in my stomach as I approach the reception desk. This is it—the chance to impress the real decision-maker and seal the deal. All my hard work is about to pay off.

The receptionist flashes me a bright smile, genuinely pleased to see me. “Welcome to Harcourt Foods, Ms. Holmes. You’re expected in the executive boardroom.”

She escorts me down the hallway and I follow her, my heart rate increasing with each step.

When we arrive, she gives me a bright smile and a thumbs up.

I pause outside the heavy wooden door to collect myself before entering.

I go through my mental checklist, check the buttons on my jacket, adjust the cuffs of my blouse, and push open the door.

Inside, a long mahogany table stretches before me, surrounded by high-back leather chairs. The seats are empty except for one. A man with slicked-back hair and a too-bright smile rises to greet me.

“Ms. Holmes! Pleasure to meet you. I’m Vincent Adler, VP of Marketing.” He clasps my hand a little too long, his gaze flickering over me in a way that makes my skin crawl.

I glance around the otherwise vacant room, trying to mask my confusion. “Mr. Adler, I was under the impression I’d be meeting with Mr. Harcourt and the executive board today…”

“Change of plans!” Adler claps his hands together. “The old man got pulled into some emergency golf—I mean, Gulf—oil spill… situation. You know how it is. But lucky for you, it’s my opinion that counts around here.”

He winks conspiratorially, and I have to physically stop myself from recoiling. This isn’t at all how I pictured today going. I force a polite smile as he gestures for me to take a seat.

Adler leans back in his chair, hands behind his head like he’s relaxing at his pool in the Hamptons instead of in a corporate office. “So, I hear you’ve got some big idea to turn us all into a bunch of tofu-eating hippies, eh?”

His dismissive chuckle grates on my nerves. This guy clearly hasn’t bothered to even skim my proposal. But I’ll be damned if I let his arrogance derail this opportunity. I didn’t get where I am, by backing down from a challenge.

I straighten up and meet his gaze head-on, mustering every ounce of professional charm. “Actually, Mr. Adler, plant-based proteins are the fastest growing sector in the food industry. If Harcourt Foods wants to stay relevant, you can’t afford to ignore this market…”

I only hope I sound more confident than I feel as I launch into my pitch.

All I can do is give this my best shot—even if it means convincing a cocky marketing bro instead of the man actually in charge.

I’ve come too far to let anyone dismiss my vision.

Harcourt Foods needs me, whether they realize it yet or not.

“… and that’s why partnering with Channing Gabriel on a line of chicken alternatives positions Harcourt Foods perfectly for the future of sustainable eating,” I conclude, my voice ringing with conviction as I gesture to the final slide of my presentation.

The boardroom falls silent. I search Adler’s face for a reaction. His expression is unreadable, and for a moment, I allow myself to hope that maybe, just maybe, I’ve gotten through to him.

Then he laughs. A loud, mocking guffaw that echoes off the polished paneled walls.

“Sustainable eating? Come on, sweetheart. People don’t want a plate of spinach and quinoa after a hard day at work. Not really. They want real food.”

Heat rises to my cheeks at the condescension dripping from his words. Sweetheart ? Who does this guy think he is? I bite back the retort on the tip of my tongue, reminding myself that losing my cool won’t do me any favors.

“With all due respect, Mr. Adler,” I say evenly, “the data shows a clear trend towards plant-based options. And it’s growing exponentially. Ignoring that shift could mean missing out on establishing your brand as the category leader and with it, a huge opportunity for growth.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Data, schmata . I’ve been in this business longer than you’ve been alive, missy. I think I know what sells. We don’t produce food for the liberal folk of California, we produce real food for working families.”

Missy ? Seriously? I clench my jaw, my nails digging into my palms as I fight to maintain my composure. I can practically feel my chances of securing this partnership slipping through my fingers with every patronizing word out of Adler’s mouth.

I take a deep breath, determined not to let his blatant sexism and narrow-mindedness get the best of me. “Mr. Adler, I strongly believe that Harcourt Foods needs to adapt to changing consumer preferences. If you’ll just take a closer look at my proposal…”

But he’s already standing up, buttoning his suit jacket with an air of finality. “I think we’re done here, Ms. Holmes. Thanks for your… insights, but I think we’ll stick to what we know works.”

The dismissal stings like a slap. I sit there, stunned, as he strides out of the room without so much as a backward glance. The heavy door closes behind him with a thud, leaving me alone in the cavernous boardroom, my carefully crafted presentation still glowing on the screen.

I slump back in my chair, my chest tight with frustration and humiliation.

I can’t believe I read the situation so wrong.

I thought I had it in the bag. That they’d be begging to innovate.

To partner. To win. Instead, I’ve been laughed out of the room by a misogynistic dinosaur who can’t see past his own ego.

Disappointment settles like a lead weight in my stomach as the reality sinks in. I’ve blown it. All that work, all that preparation, for nothing. What am I going to tell the team back at CGPR? How can I face them after this epic failure?

I try to gather my composure. I can’t let this setback break me. I’ve faced worse than this and come out swinging.

But even as I give myself the pep talk, I can’t shake the nagging sense that this isn’t just about Harcourt Foods.

It’s about everything—my career, my life, my priorities.

I feel adrift and it’s frightening. Suddenly I’m struck with the thought that if GreenShoots hadn’t surprised us with the pitch request, I’d be doing camping things with my sister and her family, and I might even be enjoying it.

I just want to retreat to my motel room, close the drapes, and lie on my bed.

But first, I have to get out of this damn boardroom with my head held high.

I gather my things and stride out of the boardroom, my chin lifted in defiance even as my heart sinks. I can feel the VP’s smug gaze boring into my back as he hovers near reception, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.

As I navigate the wood-paneled corridors of Harcourt Foods’ headquarters, my mind races with competing thoughts and emotions. Anger at the VP’s dismissive attitude. Frustration at the missed opportunity. And a gnawing sense of self-doubt that I can’t quite shake.

I pause in front of a floor-to-ceiling window by reception, staring out at the freeway and the Portland cityscape beyond. The city seems to pulse with energy and possibility, a stark contrast to the suffocating disappointment that engulfs me.

I need to focus on damage control, on finding a way to salvage this mess and prove my worth to Helen and the rest of the agency’s executive team.