Page 22 of The Maine Event (Romancing the Workplace #2)

ELEVEN

By the time I get back to the house, the sun is already beginning its lazy descent behind the trees, casting a warm amber glow across the backyard.

My heart’s still thudding from the whirlwind of the last few hours—tracking down Dan’s old friends, delivering the invitations, and alerting the press about the big reveal.

Technically, I didn’t lie. I just… didn’t tell him. Not yet.

Now, the garden is slowly transforming. The last of the string lights are being untangled, a few folding chairs have already arrived from the supplier and are stacked, ready to be set up tomorrow. There’s a buzz of potential in the air and I love it.

The party is happening. Caterers are confirmed, menu finalized—local, fresh, and just upscale enough to impress without making guests feel like they can’t relax.

I even found an event rental company willing to do a last-minute drop-off and installation of tables and décor tomorrow.

Enchanted Forest, as Pinterest promised me.

I stop near the porch, brushing dirt from my hands and surveying the scene with a strange mix of nerves and pride. It’s all coming together. I just hope Dan sees it the way I do—as a celebration, not a trap.

As if on cue, the screen door creaks open behind me, and Chloe barrels out, her overnight bag swinging from her arm. Her eyes are wide with excitement, and everything is suddenly moving fast again.

“Dad! Dad!” she calls, weaving between the tables until she reaches Dan, who’s busy tidying up the decking. “Sarah just called! Her mom said I can sleep over tonight! Can I go?”

Dan straightens, wiping his hands on his jeans, and glances at me with a crooked smile before turning back to Chloe.

“I don’t know, Chloe. It’s a school night.”

“Sarah’s mom will drop me off at school tomorrow with Sarah.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m pretty sure the two of you are going to stay up all night gossiping and you’ll be exhausted tomorrow.”

“I promise, we won’t. Anyway, Sarah’s mom has a strict lights-out at nine rule.”

Dan considers Chloe’s request, eyeballing his daughter like a drill sergeant before breaking into a grin.

“OK, then. You all packed?”

Chloe nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! I already got my stuff ready. Her mom’s picking me up in ten minutes!”

Dan’s brows lift in mild surprise. “Am I that predictable?”

“Yes,” Chloe states matter-of-factly.

“You’ve got your pajamas? Your toothbrush?”

“Yes, Dad,” she says with a dramatic eye roll, and I can’t help but stifle a laugh.

Dan glances at me with a helpless grin, and I shrug. “Sounds like she’s got it covered.”

He sighs, feigning defeat. “Okay. Go on, then. Just remember the rules—be polite, say thank you, and don’t stay up all night giggling.”

Chloe gives him an exasperated look. “Dad.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Go have fun.”

She throws her arms around his waist, squeezing tight, and then glances up at me. “Bye, Rachel!”

“Have fun,” I reply with a wave.

When she’s gone, the yard feels quieter, more spacious somehow. Dan watches her go with a lingering smile, and I catch him running a hand through his hair, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with himself now.

I lean against one of the tables, crossing my arms. “You look like a man who just lost his best friend.”

He chuckles softly, glancing back at me. “It’s weird, you know? I get so used to her being around that when she’s not, it feels like the house just… stops.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” I say, and he gives me a faint, almost bashful smile.

After a moment, he clears his throat, shifting his weight. “Hey,” he says, a bit more casual, “since I’m unexpectedly kid-free tonight… you want to go grab a drink? There’s a place just down by the water—nothing fancy, but they make a mean gin and tonic.”

His voice is so nonchalant, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, like he’s half-expecting me to say no. I smile and tilt my head. “You asking me out, Dan?”

“No!” he blurts. “I mean, I’m asking if you’d like to go out for a drink. I don’t know. You’re welcome to hang out here, I just thought?—”

“Only if I get to pick the playlist in the car.”

He barks out a laugh, giving me a sideways glance. “Fine. But if I hear any Top 40 pop nonsense, I’m leaving you on the side of the road to fend for yourself.”

Dan unlocks the car with a chirp, and as we slide into the front seats, he glances over at me. “Alright. Your choice of playlist, right? Just remember, this truck doesn’t respond well to auto-tuned heartbreak anthems.”

I smirk, scrolling through my phone. “Relax. I won’t make you suffer through Taylor’s Version tonight. How do you feel about a bit of Arctic Monkeys?”

He nods in approval. “Okay, you’ve bought yourself five minutes of respect.”

“Five? That’s it?” I laugh. “Tough crowd.”

The drive winds gently along the riverbank, the sky streaked with the colors of sunset—pink bleeding into indigo, with hints of gold flickering through the trees. There’s a peacefulness to it, the kind you don’t really get in the city. I lap it up.

Dan’s hand rests lazily on the wheel, the other drumming lightly on the door in time with the music. “You know,” he says, “it’s weird not having Chloe in the back seat giving me grief about my driving. Or asking why the moon’s following us.”

“She’s a smart kid,” I say. “And very persuasive. The lights-out-at-nine promise was impressive.”

He laughs. “She’s a force of nature. But I still second-guessed it. I worry she’ll wake up scared or miss home, or… I don’t know. I probably overthink everything.”

“You do,” I say lightly, then catch myself. “But that’s not a bad thing. I mean, sure, maybe you’re a bit overprotective?—”

“Oh, thanks.”

“—but it’s only because you care so much. She’s your whole world. And that’s… kind of beautiful.”

He goes quiet for a beat. “I just want her to have something solid, you know? Something reliable. Not like… here one day, gone the next.”

I nod, watching the trees blur past the window. “She’s lucky, Dan. She really is.”

It takes me a moment to realize I’ve fallen quiet, and he glances over. “What?”

I shake my head, offering a small smile. “Nothing. Just… wishing I’d had a dad like you.”

He doesn’t say anything, but I see his knuckles tighten slightly on the wheel, and he casts me a quick look of something almost like sympathy.

“Was he… not around?” he asks gently.

“Nope,” I say, my voice light but clipped. “Died in an industrial accident. Mum was left with two of us under six.”

Dan winces. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t push further, just nods, and turns the music up a notch. We let the song fill the silence.

But I feel it settle inside me—this strange mix of longing and admiration.

Watching Dan with Chloe over the past few days, the way he listens to her, makes her laugh, sees her—really sees her—it’s something I never experienced myself.

And it stirs something I didn’t expect. Not envy exactly.

More like… hope. That it’s possible. That men like that exist. That love can look like that.

As we pull into the gravel lot outside the bar, Dan throws me a sidelong glance. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, “if you order anything with a little umbrella in it, I’m going to mock you relentlessly.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” I shoot back. “I’m from Chicago remember, not one of you flaky actor types.”

He chuckles. “We’ll see about that.”

The bar turns out to be a welcoming, slightly nautical spot decorated with old lobster traps and faded maritime flags. It smells like cedar and salt, and the playlist is all early-2010s indie—Foster the People, The Lumineers, a little early Florence.

We grab a booth tucked into the corner, half-shielded by a tall wooden partition. Dan orders for us—two gin and tonics—then looks at me with a smirk.

“Unless you’re the type who’ll switch it up and demand an oat milk espresso martini?”

I arch a brow. “Please. What do you take me for? I’m from Chicago. I only do oat milk martinis on long-haul flights or after breakups.”

He laughs, low and warm, and I realize this is the most relaxed I’ve seen him.

The drinks arrive, sweating gently in their glasses. We clink.

“To surprise nights off,” I offer.

“And responsible parenting via sleepovers,” he adds.

We settle in, the buzz of conversation around us humming pleasantly in the background.

“So,” he says, leaning in slightly, “tell me something about you that isn’t on LinkedIn.”

I blink. “That’s a very PR way of asking for secrets.”

“Guilty. Come on. Something random. Embarrassing. Like… you used to think narwhals weren’t real, or you were in a serious fan club for a boy band.”

I smirk. “Easy. I used to write fanfiction for the Powerpuff Girls. Blossoms and heartbreak and dramatic monologues. Eight-year-old me had range.”

Dan bursts out laughing. “Wow. I was not ready for that. Powerpuff Girls? That’s intense. Which one were you?”

“Bubbles, obviously. But with Blossom’s hair accessories.”

He places a hand over his heart. “This is the greatest confession I’ve ever heard in a bar.”

“Your turn,” I say, pointing my straw at him. Dan leans back in the booth, a crooked grin playing on his lips. “Alright, my first celebrity crush was Avril Lavigne.”

I raise my brows. “Sk8er Boi Avril?”

“The one and only.” He shrugs, not even pretending to be embarrassed. “The tie, the eyeliner, the whole ‘don’t care what you think’ vibe? It was a full-blown obsession. I may or may not have tried to learn guitar to impress no one in particular.”

I burst out laughing. “Please tell me there’s photographic evidence.”

“There is. And it’s buried deep where no one will ever find it.”

“Tragic. The world deserves to see Dan-the-pop-punk-phase.”

“You laugh now, but I nailed the ‘brooding in a hoodie’ look. Some say I peaked in 2004.”

“Some being you?”

“Obviously.”