Page 34 of The Maine Event (Romancing the Workplace #2)

SEVENTEEN

FOUR MONTHS LATER

I never imagined getting dressed for a date would feel like assembling battle armor.

I stand in front of my full-length mirror, smoothing the silky fabric of my dress with slightly trembling hands. It’s a rich forest green—a color Zoe insisted made my eyes “look expensive”—but tonight, I’m not sure what message I’m trying to send. Confident? Curious? Emotionally available?

I haven’t been on a real date in months. Not since Portland. Not since Dan.

That thought catches me off guard, creeping in like an uninvited guest. I shake it off, adjusting the strap of my dress. This isn’t about him. This is about me. Moving on. Saying yes to the world again.

The condo is quiet, almost suspiciously so. No urgent emails. No impossible deadlines. No campaign crises demanding immediate triage. Just the low hum of the city outside and the quiet clink of my necklace clasp as I fasten it behind my neck.

I check my phone—my Uber is two minutes away. I grab my bag, slipping on a coat as I glance around my place. Everything is exactly where it should be. Tidy. Organized. Predictable.

It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a base of operations.

The idea unsettles me, but I push it aside. Tonight isn’t about soul-searching. Tonight is about dipping my toe back into the world of dating—and maybe reminding myself that life still exists outside of PR decks, crisis plans, and regret.

I lock the door behind me and head downstairs, the familiar clack of my heels on concrete a strange comfort. The Uber is waiting, its interior glowing softly like a promise of something new.

As the car pulls away from the curb, I catch my reflection in the window—composed, polished, every inch a woman who knows what she wants.

I just wish I knew for certain what that was.

The Uber drops me off at Nouveau —his suggestion—the trendy restaurant in the heart of downtown.

As I step inside, the lively chatter and clinking of glasses promise an evening to remember.

The hostess leads me to a table by the expansive windows, giving me a perfect view of the bustling street below.

I slide into the velvet chair, carefully crossing my legs and unfolding the napkin onto my lap like I’ve done this a hundred times.

But inside, I’m jittery. Not in a bad way, necessarily—just…

rusty. I focus on the stylish decor—exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs casting a warm glow, and an eclectic mix of artwork.

The hum of conversation fills the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter from nearby tables.

I can’t help but feel a spark of anticipation.

Maybe this is exactly what I need, a chance to connect with someone new and let loose a little.

The truth is, I’m not used to this version of myself anymore.

The one who shows up early to dates. The one who gets dressed up for the sake of curiosity, of possibility.

For so long, I’ve only dressed to be taken seriously.

Power blazers. Monochrome palettes. Always aiming to disappear into competence.

Tonight, I’m trying something different.

I glance around the restaurant, watching other tables for cues. A couple to my left is halfway through a bottle of wine, hands inching closer between courses. Across the room, someone laughs a little too loudly at something not that funny. First-date nerves, I suspect.

Friends toast with colorful cocktails, and I fidget with the napkin in my lap, trying to quell the butterflies in my stomach. Dating has never been my strong suit, always taking a backseat to my career. But I’m here now, putting myself out there. That counts for something, right?

I glance at my phone, checking the time.

He should be here any minute. I take a sip of water, surveying the menu without really reading it.

The scent of garlic and herbs waft from the kitchen, mingling with the soft jazz playing overhead.

I remind myself that tonight is about being brave.

Being spontaneous. Living my best life—or, at the very least, trying to.

Lyle arrives exactly on time, striding confidently into the restaurant with that same cocky charm I remember from the pitch meeting. He looks polished and sharp in a charcoal suit, his hair perfectly styled, and I have to admit—he cleans up well.

As he strides toward me, every eye in the room seems to notice him. He has that energy—like he knows he belongs here.

And just like that, I remember exactly why I initially said no.

“Rachel,” he greets me with a grin, holding his arms out like he’s about to hug me, but then thinking better of it and offering his hand instead. “You look fantastic.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You too.”

He chuckles, giving me a once-over. “I have to admit, I was pleasantly surprised to get your call. I thought you didn’t mix business with pleasure.”

I shrug with a smile, although I don’t appreciate the lingering look. “Usually, I don’t. But I’m trying to change that—being a little more open to… new experiences.”

Lyle raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but I get the distinct impression that his mind sunk into the gutter before he consciously dragged it back out.

“I like that. Life’s too short to stick to rules anyway.”

I laugh lightly, even though I’m not entirely sure I agree with him. “Exactly. Sometimes you just have to go for it.”

The waiter appears almost immediately, taking our drink orders while we peruse the menu—a whiskey for him and a glass of Pinot Noir for me.

Once the drinks arrive, Lyle raises his glass, giving me a confident smile. “To new beginnings,” he says, and this time I agree wholeheartedly, clinking my glass against his.

“To new beginnings,” I echo, taking a sip.

Lyle leans back, clearly comfortable in his element. “You know, I have to say, I respect someone who knows what they want and goes after it. That pitch you gave the other week was killer. You really command a room.”

I smile, but there’s a part of me that wonders if he means it as a compliment or a strategy. Praise often comes easily from people who expect everything to be transactional.

Still, I take it. I’ve worked too hard not to. “Thanks,” I reply.

He nods appreciatively. “Smart. I’ve always believed that calculated risks are the only way to get ahead. You’ve got to be willing to bend the rules when it counts.”

There’s something slick about the way he says it—like he’s not talking about bold ideas, but about cutting corners and justifying it later. It reminds me of a dozen other men I’ve met in boardrooms and during brunches: driven, yes—but never slowed down by things like ethics or empathy.

“So,” I say, steering the conversation, “when you’re not flipping burgers, what do you like to do? Hobbies? Passions?”

He gives me a look that’s somewhere between amused and horrified. “You’re kidding, right? I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of our restaurants, in front or behind the counter.”

I laugh, but it comes out brittle. He doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. There’s a pride in his voice I can’t quite align with.

I think of Dan teaching kids how to block scenes, mucking in with AV equipment and lighting, never above anything.

There’s a dignity in showing up, even when it’s messy.

Lyle seems allergic to mess—and slumming it with staff.

“Oh,” I say, my smile faltering just a touch. “Surely, for market research, or employee satisfaction, you need to?—”

He waves a dismissive hand. “I’m a vice president, Lara.

My staff deals with the nitty gritty. I’m all about the big picture.

As for hobbies, I don’t really think there’s room for distractions if you want to succeed.

I’ve always said that relationships and personal stuff can wait until you’re established.

You’ve got to build your empire first. Then you can enjoy it. ”

I nod slowly, though everything inside me recoils. I used to think like that. Maybe I still do, sometimes. But hearing it aloud—so clinical, so certain—makes it sound more like a warning than a philosophy.

I nod slowly, but I feel a tightening, like something small and sharp curling behind my ribs.

“That makes sense, I guess… but don’t you think there’s more to life than just work?”

He chuckles, like I’ve made a cute joke. “Sure, sure. But I figure once I’m at the top, I’ll have plenty of time to relax. Right now, I’m focused on getting there.”

His voice fills the space between us like an ad jingle—loud, confident, repetitive. I try to keep pace, but it’s like playing tennis with someone who’s only practicing their serve.

The conversation seems to be very one-sided.

He lists off his career achievements, the big brands he’s worked for, followed by a monologue about how he’s clawed his way up the corporate ladder.

I nod and smile in all the right places, but my mind is elsewhere, wondering why on earth I thought this man was worth my time.

After dinner, he insists on paying the bill—making a show of it, really—before escorting me outside.

He pauses on the sidewalk, turning to face me with that same self-assured smile. “I had a good time,” he says, leaning closer. “You really are as impressive as I thought.”

I manage a polite smile, but I’m already leaning back, not quite ready to let him close the gap.

There’s a moment where he looks like he might go in for a goodnight kiss. Instead of panic, I feel… mild curiosity, like watching someone attempt karaoke in a language they don’t speak.

I step back, smiling. It’s not awkward, just… expected.

“Thanks for tonight,” I say carefully, “but I don’t think this is going to work.”

His confident expression slips for a fraction of a second before he recovers. “Wait—what? I thought we were having a great time. A fantastic meal. Great restaurant?—”