Page 9 of The Maine Event

I blink, processing this information. A pickup truck? That’s about as far from my sleek, urban, green lifestyle as it gets. But beggars can’t be choosers, right?

“I’ll take it,” I say, handing over my credit card.

Minutes later, I’m staring at a behemoth of a truck, its red paint gleaming under the lot lights. I clamber into the driver’s seat, adjusting it to accommodate my shorter stature. The engine roars to life, and, truth be told, I can’t help but grin. There’s something empowering about being behind the wheel of this beast. It pains me to think it, but maybe, just maybe, I can understand why Zoe chooses to drive her Mustang despite the societal pressure to drive electric.

As I navigate the unfamiliar streets of Portland, my mind races with ideas for a potential Harcourt Foods pitch. I’ll emphasize CGPR’s track record with green initiatives, our innovative social media strategies, and our ability to connect with younger, eco-conscious consumers. Driving almost on instinct, I’ve left the city and find myself in the quieter suburbs.

Signs for Biddeford start to appear and as I’m approaching the city limits, I find a quaint motel on the outskirts of town, its neon ‘vacancy’ sign a beacon of hope after a very trying few hours. The owner, a gentleman in his early forties, introduces himself as James, insists on carrying my carry-on case to my room, and hands me a key with a knowing smile.

“Just call down to the front desk if you need anything,” he says kindly.

I nod gratefully, suddenly feeling the weight of the day catching up with me.

“Thank you. I will.”

THREE

The motel door clicks shut behind me and I let out a heavy sigh. I kick off my heels, not caring where they land, and strip off my blouse and skirt, tossing them onto the faded armchair in the corner.

As I settle into the cozy room, I can’t help but feel a flicker of excitement amid the disappointment. Sure, not being the point woman on the GreenShoots pitch is a major setback. But landing Harcourt Foods? That could be the key to everything I’ve been working towards.

I pull out my laptop, firing off a quick email to Emily to gather more information on Harcourt Foods. We’re going to have a serious talk when I’m back in the office about that little ticketing screw-up, but right now I need her on her A-game, not worrying about if she’s going to be fired. If she can get me the information I need, and quickly, it will certainly put her in a better light. Tomorrow, I’ll try to reach out to Jonathan Harcourt directly.

But for now, I need to rest and recharge. I have a feeling I’m going to need all my energy for what’s to come. The wrinkled floral comforter isn’t exactly inviting, but all I want right nowis to close my eyes and forget this train wreck of a day ever happened.

I sprawl out on the lumpy mattress in just my bra and panties, too exhausted to even slip under the covers. Maybe if I rest my eyes for a bit, I can rally enough energy to find a decent meal and figure out my next steps. I allow my eyelids to flutter closed…

BAM! The door flies open and my heart leaps into my throat as I bolt upright. A man in a motel uniform backs into the room, awkwardly dragging a cleaning cart behind him. Earbuds dangle from his ears, a tinny beat pulsing from them. He’s humming off-key as he turns around.

Our eyes lock and his jaw drops, mirroring my own shock.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry!” he stammers, averting his gaze. A blush creeps up his neck. “I thought this room was vacant.”

“Do you make a habit of barging in on half-naked women?” I snap, scrambling to yank the comforter over my exposed body, my face burning.

His blush deepens, and he runs a hand through his hair, the tension visibly knotting his shoulders.

“No, no, I swear I don’t. This was just… a massive screw-up. Room was listed as vacant, and I didn’t hear anything from inside.”

There’s something about the way he talks—his words are casual, but his delivery is strangely deliberate, like he’s choosing each one with more care than the situation calls for. I can’t help but notice how quickly he adjusts, how his voice evens out, tone confident but not overbearing. It’s like he’s used to performing calm, even when he’s mortified.

For a second, I think maybe it’s just some kind of customer service charm—the way he stays relaxed, apologizes so smoothly. But it’s more than that. He’s not just smoothing overa mistake; he’s stepping into a role, like he’s done this a hundred times before, memorized his lines.

Before I can analyze it further, he clears his throat. “Look, I’m really sorry. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” He ducks his head and practically bolts out the door, nearly tripping over the cleaning cart in his haste to exit, leaving me alone to process whatever the hell just happened.

I let out a shaky breath, trying to get my heart rate under control. It’s probably nothing. Just a guy embarrassed out of his mind and doing his best to cover it. But still… There was something about the way he carried himself, the way he delivered his apology, that didn’t quite fit with his cleaning uniform.

It’s probably nothing. I push the thought away and focus on calming down. I’ve had enough surprises for one night.

I collapse back onto the bed with a groan, my heart still racing. I have to admit, he was kind of cute, in an awkward, embarrassed sort of way. But after the day I’ve had, cute isn’t going to cut it. I need a strong drink and a hearty meal to erase this memory.

I can’t possibly sleep now, so I slide off the bed, ready to pull myself together and salvage what’s left of this disastrous day. One thing’s for sure—this is a motel check-in I won’t soon forget. Although, for both our sakes, I kind of wish I could.

Glancing at the clock, I realize with a start that I’ve been out cold for nearly two hours. Eight p.m. already? My stomach growls in protest, reminding me that the last thing I ate was a stale bagel before boarding my ill-fated flight.

I drag myself to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of my disheveled reflection in the mirror. Raccoon eyes, courtesy of my smudged mascara. Hair sticking out at odd angles from my haphazard nap. Lovely. With a sigh, I turn on the shower, hopingthe hot water will wash away the stress of the day and revive me enough to venture out in search of sustenance.

As the steam fills the small space, I step under the spray, letting it soothe my tight muscles. My mind drifts back to the man who barged in earlier. Dan, was it? There was something vaguely familiar about him, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Probably just one of those faces.

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