Page 39 of The Maine Event (Romancing the Workplace #2)

TWENTY

I sink into the plush cushions of my couch again, surrounded by a blissful chaos of potato chip bags, candy wrappers, and half-empty soda cans. My fuzzy pink slippers dangle off the edge as I stretch out, reveling in the fact that I don’t even know what time it is. And I don’t care.

The TV hums in the background, the familiar theme song of my favorite baking show spilling from the speakers like a warm hug. I’ve been playing catch-up for five straight days—something I used to think only happened to people with “hobbies” or “free time.” Apparently, that now includes me.

It’s strange. This time last week I couldn’t go ten minutes without checking Slack or mentally reworking a pitch.

Now I can’t even remember the last time I opened my laptop.

The sheer stillness of this week—no calls, no back-to-back meetings, no fires to put out—should feel unnatural.

And yet, here I am, wrapped in a blanket with unwashed hair and greasy fingers, watching strangers in Britain sweat over sponge layers and crème patissière like it’s the Wimbledon final.

It’s heavenly. And terrifying.

Part of me keeps waiting for the guilt to kick in.

For the creeping dread that I’m falling behind, that I’m losing my edge.

But it hasn’t come. Not really. Instead, I’ve started noticing how quiet my brain feels when it’s not jammed full of KPIs and click-through rates.

I’m not sure I like it. But I also don’t hate it.

There’s a weird kind of peace in not being needed.

No one’s asking for my approval. No one’s pinging me with “quick questions” that are anything but.

For once, I’m just… here. Being. Watching sugar collapse and puff pastry rise and realizing how deeply satisfying it is to root for someone whose biggest problem is whether their Genoise is too dry.

The buttery scent of microwave popcorn mingles with the sweet aroma of the scented candle flickering on the coffee table. My modest Chicago condo feels like a cozy haven, a world away from the sleek glass and steel of the CGPR offices.

I glance down at my oversized ‘I Bears’ t-shirt—originally white, now speckled with a constellation of cheese puff dust—and plaid pajama bottoms that may or may not be held up by sheer willpower. A smear of chocolate decorates my left sleeve. I’m not even mad about it.

If anyone from CGPR could see me now… Rachel Holmes, queen of the PowerPoint pitch, reduced to a feral couch goblin surviving on a diet of sugar and sodium. I haven’t worn a bra in five days. My Fitbit buzzed once, presumably to ask if I was still alive. I flipped it off and rolled over.

This is the version of me that HR never warned you about: Snack Gremlin Edition. And honestly? She’s kind of thriving.

On-screen, a contestant is attempting an ambitious three-tiered cake decorated with delicate sugar flowers. I lean forward, captivated, as the camera zooms in on their intricate piping work.

“Come on, you got this!” I mutter encouragingly at the TV, reaching for another handful of cheese puffs.

It’s amazing how invested I get in these baking journeys, considering my own culinary skills max out at boiling water and burning toast. There’s something soothing about watching people pour their hearts into creating something beautiful and delicious, even if I can’t relate.

As the contestant steps back to reveal their finished masterpiece, I let out an appreciative whistle. The judges are equally impressed, showering praise on the baker’s creativity and technical prowess.

I smile contentedly, sinking further into the cushions. This is exactly what I needed—a week of doing nothing, some time to recharge, to remember there’s more to life than work. Even if that “more” mainly involves binge-watching reality TV and consuming my body weight in junk food.

For now, I’m happy to stay right here in my little bubble of relaxation, soaking up every blissful, responsibility-free moment. The real world can wait until next week, or maybe even next month. This week is all about embracing the art of doing absolutely nothing.

That’s not to say I haven’t given the future, my future, some serious thought. I stare up at the ceiling and try to imagine going back. Back to the endless calls, the weekends lost to ‘urgent’ pitch decks, the CEO egos, the last-minute rebrands, the tight smiles, the tighter deadlines.

I love what I do. God help me, I actually love PR.

I love crafting a story that cuts through the noise.

I love the strategy, the psychology, the dance of it.

But, what I’ve come to realize is, I don’t love living on someone else’s calendar.

I don’t love sacrificing every spare minute to prop up brands I don’t believe in.

I don’t love being told to ‘lean in’ while quietly being leaned on until I crack.

And I’m tired of pretending that I want to climb someone else’s ladder. I want to build my own damn house.

It hits me—softly, but all at once.

I don’t want another job.

I want freedom.

I want flexibility.

I want clients I choose, hours I set, and the kind of balance that doesn’t require me to schedule joy like a boardroom meeting.

I want my own consultancy.

There it is. The truth, clear as glass.

It’s terrifying, sure. Risky. Unpredictable. But the thought of what comes next makes me feel alive instead of just… responsible.

Still… the truth is, I don’t need to figure it all out today.

The work/life balance doesn’t start when I land my first client. It starts now. With the life part.

So, I shuffle into the kitchen to make another bag of popcorn. There are at least four unwatched series calling my name, and frankly, I intend to answer them all.

Just as I’m reaching for the remote to line up the next episode, a shrill ringing shatters the peaceful atmosphere. I groan, tempted to ignore it, but a nagging sense of responsibility propels me off the couch.

Padding across the room, I locate my phone beneath a pile of discarded candy wrappers. The screen flashes with an unfamiliar number with a Maine area code, and I frown, debating whether to answer.

Curiosity wins out. “Hello?” I say tentatively, hoping it’s not another telemarketer trying to sell me on a timeshare.

“Ms. Holmes? This is Jonathan Harcourt,” a gruff voice responds, and my eyes widen in surprise. “From Harcourt Foods.”

“Oh! Um, hello, Mr. Harcourt,” I stammer, caught off guard. My mind races, trying to figure out why he’d be calling me directly. “What can I do for you?”

There’s a brief pause, and I hear him clear his throat. “I was hoping we could meet, to discuss a potential opportunity.”

“Opportunity?” I echo, my curiosity piqued. I absently twirl a strand of hair around my finger, trying to picture what kind of opportunity he could be referring to.

“Yes,” he confirms, his tone businesslike yet not unkind. “I have a proposition I think you might find interesting. Are you available to meet in person, say, tomorrow afternoon?”

I glance around my apartment, taking in the snack debris and my less-than-professional attire. The old Rachel would have jumped at the chance, no questions asked. But something about this unexpected call gives me pause.

Still, I can’t deny the thrill of anticipation that runs through me at the prospect of a new challenge. Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling me it’s time to get back in the game.

“Absolutely,” I find myself saying, my voice strong and sure. “Just name the time and place, and I’ll be there.”

As I jot down the details, I feel a renewed sense of purpose coursing through my veins. Whatever this opportunity entails, I’m ready to face it head-on.

Looks like my lazy week just got a whole lot more interesting.

I hang up the phone, my mind reeling with possibilities. Old Man Harcourt wants to meet with me? Why?

Suddenly, the cozy cocoon of my apartment feels… off. All week, I’ve been hiding out, convincing myself that stillness was the same as healing. But standing here, phone still warm in my hand, I feel a jolt of something I haven’t felt in a while—curiosity. Maybe even hope.

I don’t know what Harcourt wants, but whatever it is, it’s something . A break in the monotony. A door I hadn’t expected to find swinging open.

I toss the remote aside and rise from the couch, my pulse quickening.

Time to get your shit together.

I stand in the middle of my living room, chip bags crackling beneath my slippers like autumn leaves. The TV drones on, blissfully unaware that I’ve just been offered a lifeline—one that smells faintly of opportunity and stale popcorn.

I gather up the empty snack packages and shove them into the trash with a sigh that’s heavier than I expect. Not because playtime’s over—but because somewhere in the middle of watching other people whip egg whites into stiff peaks, I forgot what it felt like to care about something.

I glance around the room—wrappers, crumbs, the coffee table littered with the depressing buffet of my burnout. It doesn’t look like a woman on vacation. It looks like a woman who quit.

And maybe that’s what this call from Harcourt is: a line thrown into deep water. A reminder that I’m not done. That I don’t want to be done.

I grab the Febreze, take one last look at the snack throne I built—and start wiping it all away.

As I straighten the throw pillows on the couch, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the TV screen. My hair is a mess, and I’m pretty sure there’s a chocolate smudge on my cheek.

“Ugh,” I groan, rubbing at the spot. “You’re a hot mess, Holmes.”

But even as I say it, I can’t help but laugh. If Old Man Harcourt could see me now, he’d probably wonder what he’s gotten himself into.