Page 21 of The Maine Event (Romancing the Workplace #2)

TEN

I drive myself to Dan’s in the big red beast and opt for quite a circuitous route, convincing myself that I’m sightseeing, when the truth is, I just really love driving an enormous pickup. I am officially converted.

I pull up to Dan’s house, the engine rumbling like a small earthquake as I shift into park. It’s ridiculous—practically a monster truck compared to my sleek city car back home—but at this point, I’ve just accepted that Maine and I have very different ideas about appropriate transportation.

Dan steps out onto the porch as I kill the engine, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “Compensating for something?”

I smirk, hopping down from the driver’s seat—seriously, this thing requires climbing—and shut the door with a solid thunk . “Yes. For the absolute lack of functional rental cars in this state.”

He whistles low, eyeing the truck. “You planning on hauling lumber after the party? Maybe joining a construction crew?”

I toss my keys in the air and catch them. “Actually, I was thinking of starting a side hustle in competitive mudding. Think I could pull it off?”

Dan tilts his head, pretending to consider. “I don’t know. You might need to swap out the heels for work boots first.”

I glance down at my ankle boots and shrug. “Fashionable and functional. I’m a woman of many talents.”

He chuckles, stepping forward to grab the bags from my hands. “Come on, city girl. Let’s get you inside before you start scaring the locals.”

I follow him up the steps, grinning. “You are aware you’re one of the locals, right?”

“Yeah,” he calls over his shoulder, “which is why I’m speaking from experience.”

I shake my head, amused, as he pushes open the door and steps aside to let me in. The house smells like fresh wood and coffee, and something about it—about being here—feels oddly… easy. Familiar, even.

Which is a dangerous feeling.

I shake it off, dropping my keys onto the counter.

“Alright. Let’s plan a party.”

“So,” he says, leaning against the fridge, “what’s left to do? I can help.”

I pause, hands hovering over the checklist. I can feel his restlessness, the way his eyes keep flicking toward the backyard, where the half-painted boathouse sits waiting.

I smirk. “You really want to help with party prep?”

He shrugs, pushing off the fridge. “I don’t mind.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You don’t mind, or you’d rather be outside putting another coat of paint on the boathouse?”

Dan scoffs. “Do you think it needs it?”

I cross my arms, tilting my head. “You clearly do, the way you’re looking at it…” I let the sentence hang, teasing.

His mouth twitches, like he wants to argue but knows I’ve got him. He glances out the window, just for a second.

I sigh dramatically, waving him off. “Go. Paint. Bond with your structure. I can handle the rest.”

Dan hesitates. “You sure?”

I gesture to the neatly arranged decorations, which all need to be hanged. “I’ve got this. Besides, you’ll probably just get in the way.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “Fine. But if you need anything?—”

“I won’t,” I cut in.

He points a finger at me as he backs toward the door. “If you change your mind?—”

“I won’t,” I repeat, grinning.

He huffs out a laugh and finally gives in. “Alright, alright. Yell if you need me.”

I watch as he heads outside, already pulling his hoodie over his head like he’s been waiting all morning to get back to work. The second he steps onto the dock, his shoulders relax, and I shake my head.

Yeah. He really wants the boathouse to shine.

At ten on the dot, a delivery driver arrives with the printed invitations we’ll use for everyone who lives locally.

I stare at the colorful array splayed across the kitchen table, my mind buzzing with possibilities.

Dan’s housewarming party is the perfect opportunity to orchestrate his big acting comeback announcement.

He may not know it yet, but this is exactly what he needs.

The gold-embossed invitations feel suitably fancy for announcing a major life-changing event. They’re perfect.

I grab my favorite pen, the one I usually reserve for signing client engagement contracts, and start jotting down ideas for the invitation wording. It has to be just the right blend of intriguing and mysterious, enough to pique people’s curiosity without giving away the surprise.

“You are cordially invited to The Maine Event, a housewarming soirée, celebrating new beginnings and exciting revelations.”

I read it aloud, tapping the pen against my chin. “Hmm, not bad.”

Dan may be hesitant at first, but I know deep down he’s been longing to revive his acting career. He just needs a little nudge in the right direction.

I gather up the chosen invitations, envisioning the look of surprise and gratitude on Dan’s face when he realizes what I’ve done for him.

Sure, it’s a bit unconventional to make such a big decision without consulting him, but sometimes people need a push—especially when they’re standing on the edge of something great, and refusing to take the leap.

As I stuff the invitations into crisp white envelopes, anticipation builds in my chest. This party isn’t just about Dan’s acting comeback; it’s about showing him that he has someone in his corner, cheering him on and believing in his dreams.

I seal the last envelope with a flourish, a smile playing at the corners of my lips.

Better to beg for forgiveness than asking for permission, right?

Well.

Here goes nothing.

I tuck the invitations into my purse, my fingers lingering for a moment on the soft flap of the final envelope—like part of me knows I’m crossing some kind of invisible line. But I’ve made peace with it. Dan might not see it now, but he will.

Sometimes, we need to believe for people, when they can’t do it themselves—just until they remember how.

The Portland Tribune office is abuzz with activity as I step through the glass doors, a stack of invitations tucked discreetly in my purse.

The air is thick with the scent of fresh coffee and printer ink, the clack of keyboards filling the space as reporters talk rapidly into phones or hunch over their desks.

I scan the room, mentally cataloging the energy.

Newsrooms are a lot like PR agencies—organized chaos, fueled by caffeine and looming deadlines.

I approach the receptionist’s desk, shoulders back, confidence dialed to maximum PR mode.

This isn’t just a party.

It’s a pivot.

And it starts now.

“Hi there,” I say, flashing my most approachable but professional smile. “I was hoping to speak with someone about an upcoming event. It’s quite exclusive, and I think your readers would be very interested.”

The receptionist, a young woman with a sleek bob and inquisitive eyes, leans forward slightly. “Oh. What kind of event are we talking about?”

I lower my voice conspiratorially, like I’m letting her in on a massive scoop. “Let’s just say it involves a beloved local celebrity making a major announcement. I can’t reveal too much yet, but trust me, it’s going to be the talk of the town.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head.

“Intriguing!” she says, grabbing a notepad. “What kind of announcement?

“Something that’ll have everyone talking.” I let the pause stretch. “A new chapter. A return. Maybe even… a redemption story.”

She exhales, clearly hooked. “Let me see if our entertainment editor is available. One sec.”

As she picks up the phone, I allow myself a small, satisfied smile. The seed has been planted, and I can already sense the buzz starting to build.

With the newspaper piece set in motion, I shift gears and set off on my next mission—delivering the invitations to Dan’s old friends, the ones he’s been so good at avoiding all these years.

I head back to Biddeford in the big red beast, this time taking the time to drive through town.

Not because I have to.

Just because…

Okay, fine—I love this truck. I’m officially converted.

There’s something weirdly empowering about sitting up high, feeling the power of the engine beneath me, watching the quaint Maine scenery roll past.

Biddeford isn’t big or flashy, but there’s something charming about it.

It’s a town with history, with character, with people who have known each other for decades.

Unlike Chicago, where everything moves at breakneck speed, where people’s faces blur together, where even the friendships can feel… transactional.

I pull up outside the first house on my list—Karl’s—a modest two-story home with a front porch swing and an old Labrador watching me from the steps

I step out, invitation in hand, and approach the door. I know these people don’t expect me.

Hell, they don’t know me at all.

But I know they mean something to Dan. His old crew, the ones who tried to pull him back into the world after his wife died.

The ones he let slip away.

I knock twice. The door swings open to reveal a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties, his brow furrowing as he takes me in.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi.” I smile, extending the envelope. “I’m Rachel. A friend of Dan’s. He’s hosting a housewarming party, and I wanted to make sure you got an invite.”

A pause. His gaze flicks to the truck, back to me.

“You from around here?”

I shake my head. “Just visiting. But I figured Dan’s friends might appreciate a chance to catch up with him.”

Karl’s expression softens slightly. He takes the envelope, turning it over in his hands.

“Haven’t seen Dan in a while.”

I nod. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

There’s a beat. Then, to my surprise, he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Man, always was a stubborn ass. Guess it’s time someone dragged him back into civilization.”

I grin. “That’s the plan.”

One down.

I climb back into the beast of a truck, key in the next address into the satnav, and rev the engine.

On to the next stop.