Page 40 of The Maine Event (Romancing the Workplace #2)

As soon as I have booked my ticket, this time triple-checking it’s for the right airport, I make my way to the bedroom, flinging open the closet doors.

I rifle through hangers, pulling out potential outfit options for tomorrow’s meeting.

Business casual? Full-on power suit? I hold up a blouse, then toss it aside.

As I continue to sort through my clothes, I feel a sense of determination settling over me. Whatever this opportunity is, I’m going to make the most of it.

But first, I need to find the perfect outfit. And maybe do something about this bedhead situation.

I finally settle on a sleek navy pantsuit that never fails to make me feel confident. As I lay it out on the bed, my mind races with possibilities. What could Old Man Harcourt want to discuss? The suspense is killing me.

I glance at my phone, half expecting it to ring again with more details. But it remains silent. I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out.

I adjust my dress in the hotel mirror one last time, my reflection staring back with the ghost of a smirk.

The heels are polished, the hair’s behaving, and the fitted dress is doing exactly what it’s supposed to—broadcasting competence with a touch of intimidation.

My portfolio is tucked under my arm like a weapon.

There’s a flicker of nerves in my stomach, sure. But there’s something else too—electricity. The kind I haven’t felt in weeks.

The cab ride to Harcourt headquarters is short. I step out and look up at the aging facade, and stride confidently into the lobby for the third time.

“Rachel Holmes, here to see Mr. Harcourt,” I announce to the receptionist. She nods and gestures for me to take a seat.

Minutes later, a statuesque woman in a crisp white blouse and pencil skirt emerges. “Mr. Harcourt will see you now,” she says with a polite smile. “Follow me.”

We weave through a labyrinth of hallways until we reach an imposing set of double doors. The brass nameplate reads “J.D. Harcourt, CEO”.

Inside, the spacious, wood-paneled corner office is more like a den. Framed magazine covers line one wall, yellowed with age, each featuring the steely-eyed, and much younger, visage of J. D. Harcourt himself.

“Ms. Holmes, a pleasure.” His voice booms as he rises from behind the massive mahogany desk. Old Man Harcourt is an imposing figure, tall and broad-shouldered, with a shock of silver hair and piercing blue eyes. His handshake is firm.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Harcourt. Though I must admit, your call was somewhat unexpected.”

He chuckles, gesturing for me to take a seat. “Straight to the point. I like that.” He leans back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers.

“I’m led to understand that you pitched quite a significant pivot to my new product development team some months ago.”

I glance around his office—at the decades-old production schematics behind glass—and feel the weight of what the Harcourts have built.

Three generations of selling chicken. That’s not just a business model; it’s a family identity.

Sunday dinners, backyard barbecues, kids tearing into chicken nuggets between soccer games.

The idea of convincing Old Man Harcourt from that to…

well, mushed-up vegetables… it’s not just a commercial shift.

It’s emotional. I have to play this very carefully.

There’s an opportunity here. Small, I grant you, but he did request a meeting.

I can keep it cordial, spend ten minutes with the man and hopefully leave him with a little niggle in the back of his mind to maybe consider augmenting his product range…

or… I can believe in the data. Believe in the market. Believe in me…

“Most men I know wouldn’t last ten minutes in a focus group for this kind of pivot,” I say lightly. “If it doesn’t moo, cluck, or come with a side of fries, it’s met with suspicion.”

Harcourt raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

“But,” I continue, “even the most traditional meat-eaters are starting to look sideways at their plates. The truth is, one of the hero ingredients I proposed comes from a fungus— Fusarium venenatum , to be exact. It’s naturally occurring.

It’s fermented in a controlled environment and produces mycoprotein.

Packed with fiber. High in protein. Minimal environmental impact.

And if you handle the seasoning right—honestly?

It has a better texture than chicken breast.”

Harcourt leans back, watching me closely.

“It sounds sci-fi. I get that. But it’s also science-forward. And if we frame it properly, it won’t feel like heresy. It’ll feel like progress that respects the past.”

There’s a beat of silence. His fingers tap slowly against the folder on the desk. I wonder if I’ve gone too far.

“I’ll be frank, Ms. Holmes. There’s been some trouble brewing here at Harcourt Foods.”

“Trouble? Of what sort?”

Harcourt sighs heavily. “Seems my VP of marketing had some very lofty ambitions, trying to push me out, position himself to take over.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, shaking my head.

“Thank you for your concern. But don’t worry, I’ve put a stop to it.”

I nod, processing this information. “I see. Well, I’m glad you were able to handle it. But what does this have to do with me, if I may ask?”

“I find myself in need of someone to take the lead on our rebranding. Do you think that someone could be you?”

My mouth falls open in shock. Harcourt Foods is a S&P 500 company. To be handed the reins on a project of this magnitude is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Questions swirl in my mind—the timeline, the budget, the scope…

He watches me for a moment longer, then leans forward, elbows on the desk.

“Tell me something, Ms. Holmes. If you were sitting in my chair, what’s the first thing you’d do to get this company back on track?”

It’s a test. A sharp one. He wants to see if I flinch.

“I’d stop thinking like a commodity,” I reply without hesitation. “You’ve spent fifty years perfecting supply chains and margins. But the future’s emotional. People don’t just buy food—they buy identity. Aspiration. Belonging.”

“And you think a rebrand can give them that?”

“I think a brand that talks like a person and moves like a culture can. And that means, before you do anything, you need to reflect the culture with the products you offer.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that answer. “And what exactly does that look like? A TikTok dance with a mushroom cutlet?”

I smile. “Not unless you’re doing the dancing. But imagine a campaign that leans into your legacy instead of hiding it. A multi-generational story. ‘From family farms to future food.’ We remind people that you’ve always fed American families. Now you’re feeding their values too.”

He leans back again. “And if the board hates it?”

“They’ll come around—once they see the market share shift and the headlines soften.”

“You’re sure of yourself.”

“I’m sure of the work,” I say. “And I’m sure of what consumers want, even if they don’t know how to articulate it yet.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “You don’t bluff, do you?”

“Not unless I have a full house.”

He laughs, a low, approving sound. “You know, I used to think legacy meant building something too big to fail.”

I pause, not sure if he’s talking to me or himself.

“But these days, I wonder if it means knowing when to change course—before the tide takes you with it. My generation built empires on convenience and price. But that’s not what my grandkids care about. They ask where the chicken lived, what it ate, whether it was happy.”

He lets out a dry laugh, shakes his head.

“I used to roll my eyes. Now I listen.”

I nod, quietly moved. It’s not a confession, exactly. But it’s more than I expected.

He straightens, the moment gone, the CEO mask sliding back into place.

“Harcourt Foods is at a crossroads. We need fresh thinking, bold ideas. The product team showed me a copy of the presentation you delivered, and I think you captured exactly what we need to do if we want to make sure this business not just survives, but thrives, over the coming years.”

“I still stand by that. And the data supports?—”

“Let’s get down to brass tacks. The world is changing, Ms. Holmes.

Consumer tastes are changing. ‘Healthy’ and ‘sustainable’ are words people like me would prefer to ignore, but the truth is we’re having to compete on price to maintain revenues.

I’ve been around long enough to know that will only end one way.

Whether we like it or not, plant-based alternatives are the future. ”

I lean forward, intrigued. “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Harcourt. Embracing plant-based alternatives is a smart move for Harcourt Foods.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ll be honest, I don’t quite understand it myself. Why anyone would choose to eat something pretending to be chicken when they could have the real thing is beyond me. But I’m not blind to the trends.”

I smile, appreciating his candor. “It’s a different mindset, for sure. But the demand is undeniable. With the right strategy, Harcourt Foods could position itself as a leader in this space.”

Harcourt nods, tapping his finger on the desk. “That’s where you come in. I need a comprehensive rebranding plan, a way to introduce these new products without alienating our core customer base. It’s a delicate balance. If I offered you the job to turn this all around, would you accept?”

“Mr. Harcourt, before we go any further, there’s something you should know. I’m no longer with Channing Gabriel.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh? What happened?”

I feel a knot forming in my stomach, worrying that this revelation could jeopardize the opportunity. “It was my decision. I felt it was time for a change, to pursue new challenges.”

Harcourt studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. The seconds tick by, and I fight the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.