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

I glance at the screen. A ruggedly handsome man with piercing blue eyes is engaged in a heated argument with an equally beautiful woman.

Malibu Lagoon , the title graphic reads—I’ve never heard of it, but that doesn’t mean much.

I barely have time to switch on the television, so major zeitgeist shows pass me by all the time.

A quick search on IMDb reveals that this telenovela-type soap opera ran for four seasons before being abruptly canceled eight years ago.

It has a surprisingly high rating and judging from the comments, a legion of fans just like my mom.

I arch an eyebrow. “Really? A soap opera?”

Mom waves me off. “It’s very well done. And the lead actor? Ugh , so talented.”

I study the screen. The guy is striking, all brooding intensity and movie-star good looks. If I were casting a campaign, he’d be a marketing dream.

“Isn’t he handsome?” Mom gushes, as if reading my thoughts. “So good.”

I nod absentmindedly, my mind already drifting back to work. Instinctively, I reach for my phone to check my emails, but a breaking news alert catches my eye.

“Mount Spurr erupts again in Alaska,” the headline reads, accompanied by a dramatic image of a massive ash cloud billowing from the volcano.

I feel a knot form in my stomach. I can’t imagine living next to such a frightening force of nature that could erupt at any time. I’m not sure how those who do can possibly sleep at night.

“Rachel, are you even listening to me?” Mom’s voice snaps me back to reality.

“Sorry, Mom. Just catching up on world events. I’m all ears, promise.”

Mom sighs, shaking her head. “You’re always glued to that thing. Even when you’re supposed to be relaxing.”

I feel a pang of guilt, knowing she’s right. I’ve been so consumed by work lately that I’ve barely had time for anything else, including visiting my mother.

I sink back, allowing myself to relax for the first time in what feels like months. I haven’t been to visit in ages, and it feels… strange. Almost like I don’t belong here anymore.

I moved out of Mom’s house as soon as I could, desperate to make something of myself.

Even back in high school, I was the girl with the color-coded planner and the stack of textbooks bigger than my head.

The girl who stayed up until midnight finishing extra credit assignments just to make sure no one could beat me to valedictorian.

God, I remember the feeling of opening that acceptance letter to Northwestern, my hands shaking so badly I almost ripped it in half.

It wasn’t even about leaving—no, I was ready for that.

It was about proving I could do it. That I could be the best. That all the late nights and stress-induced migraines meant something.

Mom used to worry about me back then, always saying I was pushing myself too hard. Claire, on the other hand, just thought I was nuts. “You’re like a hamster on an espresso drip,” she once joked when I was cramming for finals. “Chill out, Rach. You’re already a shoo-in.”

But chilling out never felt like an option. Not for me. I couldn’t let myself be just good enough. I had to be the best. I had to make something of myself—something big, something important.

Maybe Mom was right all those years ago. Maybe I have been pushing myself too hard. But the thought of slowing down, of stopping to take stock of my life, terrifies me. Because what if, when I stop, I realize that none of it is worth anything at all?

“I know, I know,” I concede, putting my phone away. “I’ll try to unplug more, I promise.”

“You’d better. You’re not too old for the flying slipper, you know.”

To be fair, my mom’s ability to nail someone with a slipper from across the room is legendary.

When Claire and I were growing up, she could hit your arm or your leg, or whatever appendage was offending her, from thirty feet.

It was never thrown with particular malice, but the accuracy was astounding.

“Still think you’ve got it, Mom? You’re not in your thirties anymore, and I’m not eight.”

“That’s true, but you are in your thirties now, and luckily for me, you’re a much bigger target. I like my chances.”

Mom hovers a hand near an ankle, fingers twitching over her slipper like a gunslinger ready to draw.

“Okay. Okay.” I concede and place my phone face down on the coffee table, out of sight, out of mind.

As soon as I do, Mom smiles and turns off the television. “So, what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Have you been fired?”

“No!” I squeak, horrified at the thought. “I’m… I’m on vacation.”

“Since when?”

“About an hour ago.”

I fill Mom in on my forced sabbatical and foolishly admit that I don’t really know what to do with myself. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s a mistake.

With the lithe grace of a mountain cat, she’s up and out of her armchair, dialing my sister’s cell phone before I know what’s happening.

Thirty minutes later, my life is ruined.

“Claire will pick you up at ten on Sunday,” Mom announces, far too pleased with herself. “Pack warm.”

I stare at her. “Mom. No.”

“Oh, come on. A cabin on Lake Michigan! Fresh air! Family time! You love your nieces.”

“I love them in small doses,” I mutter. “Preferably when they’re asleep.”

Mom grins. “Then think of this as character-building.”

“I don’t need character. I need Wi-Fi and a coffee machine that doesn’t require manual labor.”

Mom pats my cheek. “You need to live a little, sweetheart.”

“Thanks for the support.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I know. Well, I think it’s lovely you’re all going away together,” she says and turns back to her program.

I stare in disbelief at my mom’s beaming grin of self-satisfaction. I don’t like vacations. I certainly don’t like camping. And I’m more of a “here’s your birthday gift, now run along and play” kind of auntie, at least until they’re potty trained and can string a sentence together.

Somehow, I’m now signed up to spend ten days cooped up with my sister, her husband, and their two rambunctious toddlers at their log cabin on Lake Michigan.

It’s not that I don’t love my sister and her family, but the idea of being away from work, from the city, fills me with an unsettling sense of dread.

Somehow, I’m signed up for a trip to the wilderness, hunting elk, and drinking from streams—or whatever it is people do when they’re in the great outdoors.

I groan.

This is going to be a disaster.

Or, at the very least, deeply, deeply inconvenient.

Two weeks away from work? Away from my team, my clients, my progress ? I’ve been working toward a partnership for years, and I can’t impress the powers that be if I’m off roasting marshmallows and pretending to enjoy nature.

They say out of sight, out of mind. What if someone else steps in and wows them in my absence? What if I come back to find that all my hard work has been quietly shuffled onto someone else’s plate?

I’ll make it work. I have to. Because the last thing I can afford is to be forgotten.