Page 10 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

The main hall is full of teenagers gathered around a laptop, watching traditional Filipino dance demonstrations. Carlo Martinez waves when he sees Maya, then notices me and his expression grows uncertain.

“Carlo, you remember Declan Pierce,” Maya says easily. “He’s here to learn about Highland’s programs.”

“Are you here about the demolition?” Carlo asks directly.

Maya and I exchange glances. “Mr. Pierce and I are working together to explore alternatives,” she says carefully. “We want to find solutions that work for everyone.”

“Does that mean Highland isn’t getting torn down?” A girl who looks about sixteen approaches, hope clear in her voice.

“We’re exploring options,” I tell her. “Nothing’s decided yet.”

It’s honest, and judging from the way the teenagers’ expressions brighten, it’s more hope than they’ve had in months.

“Would you like to learn Tinikling?” Carlo asks. “We could use extra people to hold the poles.”

I look at Maya, who’s fighting back laughter. “Tinik... what?”

“Tinikling. Traditional Filipino dance,” she explains. “Dancers step between bamboo poles that are rhythmically tapped together. It requires coordination, timing, and?—”

“Trust,” Carlo finishes. “You have to trust your partner to keep the rhythm while you focus on the footwork.”

Maya’s smile is knowing. “Perfect metaphor for collaboration.”

Minutes later, I’m standing at one end of two bamboo poles, facing Maya across the space where dancers will leap between our rhythmic tapping. The basic rhythm is deceptively simple—tap the poles on the ground twice, then click them together once, repeat.

“The key is consistency,” Maya calls out. “The dancers are trusting us to maintain the beat.”

We start slowly, and I discover Tinikling requires more concentration than it appears. The rhythm demands focus while watching dancers leap between the poles, trusting them not to miss their steps.

“Good!” Carlo encourages as a younger girl successfully navigates the pattern. “Mr. Pierce, you’re getting it!”

Maya laughs as I nearly miss a beat. “Focus on the rhythm, not the footwork. Trust that the dancers know what they’re doing.”

After twenty minutes, I understand why Carlo called it a collaboration metaphor. Success requires each person to focus on their role while trusting others to handle theirs. It’s also surprisingly fun.

By the time practice ends, I’m laughing with teenagers who an hour ago viewed me as the enemy, and Maya is looking at me with something that might be approval.

“Not bad for your first lesson,” she says as we help put away equipment.

“I may need practice before the festival.”

Maya pauses in coiling extension cords. “You’re planning to attend?”

The question catches me off guard. A week ago, the idea would have been absurd. But standing in Highland’s main hall, having been included in dance practice despite representing a threat to their community, the answer is clear.

“If I’m invited.”

“Of course you’re invited,” she says softly.

“But fair warning—our cultural celebrations involve a lot of food, music, and people asking personal questions. Rosa’s been asking about your family background since you started coming around.

She wants to know if you’re single, if you have children, and whether you can dance anything besides Tinikling. ”

Heat creeps up my neck. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her to ask you herself.” Maya heads toward the storage closet. “Rosa doesn’t believe in secondhand information when it comes to eligible bachelors.”

“Eligible bachelors?”

Maya pauses in the doorway, her expression suddenly serious. “Declan, you should know that if you keep showing up here, people are going to assume you’re interested in more than business partnerships.”

“Are they wrong?” The question slips out, honest and direct and completely inappropriate.

Maya stares at me, and I can see her weighing how to respond. The silence stretches between us, loaded with possibilities.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “Are they?”

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes with a text from Elliot.

Board meeting moved to 11 AM. Harrison wants update on collaboration timeline. Where are you?

I check the time—ten-thirty. I’ve been at Highland for over two hours, and it felt like minutes.

“I have to go,” I tell Maya, showing her the text. “Board meeting.”

“Of course.” Her expression shifts back to professional courtesy, but something lingers in her eyes. “I’ll email you the mixed-use development research.”

I pause at Highland’s front door. “Maya, about what I asked?—”

“Focus on your board meeting,” she interrupts. “We can talk about... other things later.”

I drive back to Pierce Enterprises thinking about bamboo poles and traditional dances and the way Maya looked when she asked if Highland’s community was wrong about my interests.

By the time I reach my office, one thing is clear—this collaboration is becoming far more complicated than I anticipated.

And Harrison is going to be asking questions I’m not sure I’m ready to answer.

The boardroom feels like a tribunal when I walk in at 10:58 AM. Harrison sits at the head of the table with the other board members flanking him, while Elliot Walker—my oldest friend and VP of development—offers a subtle nod of support from near the windows.

“Cutting it close, aren’t we?” Harrison’s voice could freeze summer.

I take my seat at the opposite end of the table. “Traffic from downtown was heavier than expected.”

“Downtown.” Harrison’s emphasis makes the location sound like a moral failing. “Yes, let’s discuss your recent fascination with that particular area of the city.”

“The board authorized a collaborative approach to the Highland situation,” I say carefully. “I’m implementing that strategy.”

“We authorized you to manage community opposition,” Patricia Winters corrects. “Not to become their best friend.”

“Four visits to Highland Community Center in two weeks, Declan,” Harrison continues. “Care to explain why our CEO is spending more time in a community center than his own office?”

Ice floods my veins. Harrison’s surveillance runs deeper than I realized.

“Effective management requires understanding the stakeholders involved.”

“Understanding? Or something else entirely?” Harrison slides a tablet across the table. “Because this suggests your meetings with Maya Navarro have become quite personal.”

On the screen is a photo of me and Maya during yesterday’s Tinikling practice, both of us laughing as teenagers show us the steps.

Someone at Highland posted it to social media with the caption: “Even Pierce Enterprises’ CEO can learn new moves!

Thanks for being part of our Highland family, Declan! ”

Highland family. The words hit harder than they should.

“Community engagement is part of the collaborative strategy,” I say.

“Community engagement or personal fascination?” Harrison’s smile is razor-sharp. “Because what I see is a CEO who’s lost sight of his responsibilities.”

“The Highland collaboration has generated valuable development insights,” Elliot interjects smoothly. “Maya Navarro’s research could significantly increase the Anderson Project’s profitability while solving our community opposition problem.”

I watch Elliot work, deflecting Harrison’s personal accusations by reframing everything as business strategy. He’s positioning himself as the voice of reasoned judgment while making Harrison look reactionary.

“Tax incentives and expedited permitting could save us months and increase profits,” I add, following Elliot’s lead. “It’s a win-win scenario.”

“It’s a scenario that sets dangerous precedent,” Harrison snaps. “Every community organization in the city will expect the same treatment.”

“Only if we make it standard practice,” Elliot says reasonably. “This could be positioned as innovative community partnership. Great PR, strong returns, and we avoid ongoing protest costs.”

Board member Patricia Winters nods slowly. “Community opposition has been expensive on past projects.”

Harrison’s expression grows thunderous as he realizes the room isn’t automatically siding with him.

“The numbers are irrelevant if our CEO has compromised his judgment,” Harrison says coldly. “I’m seeing emotional decision-making where we need business strategy.”

“What you’re seeing is adaptive leadership,” Elliot counters smoothly. “Declan identified opportunities where others saw only obstacles.”

“Adaptive leadership doesn’t explain why our CEO is planning to spend his entire Saturday at Highland’s cultural festival instead of the Westside development site visit.”

My stomach drops. The site visit—scheduled walk-through with city planners that’s been on the calendar for weeks. Harrison knows exactly how this looks.

“The site visit can be rescheduled,” I say, knowing how weak it sounds.

“Can it? The city planning committee specifically requested Saturday. But apparently, Filipino folk festivals take precedence over municipal relationships.”

“Actually,” Elliot jumps in, “attending Highland’s festival shows Pierce Enterprises as community-engaged. Could be excellent optics with the city planners—demonstrates we work with communities rather than bulldoze them.”

I watch Elliot masterfully turn Harrison’s criticism into strategic advantage, but Harrison’s expression tells me this confrontation isn’t over.

“Fine,” Harrison says finally. “The collaboration continues. But I want weekly updates and a firm deadline. Six weeks to prove this approach works, or we return to conventional demolition as soon as possible.”

“Six weeks,” I confirm.

“And Declan?” Harrison’s voice carries unmistakable warning. “Don’t mistake community engagement for personal relationships. This board won’t tolerate leadership decisions driven by emotional attachments.”

After the others leave, Elliot lingers behind.

“That was close,” he says quietly.

“Harrison knows about Maya.” I slump in my chair. “Someone’s reporting back to him.”

“Harrison has resources we’re not aware of,” Elliot warns. “Be careful. He’s looking for any excuse to question your leadership.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because attending Highland’s festival tomorrow, after that confrontation, looks like deliberate defiance.”

I think about Maya’s invitation, about the promise I made to attend, about the way she looked when she asked if I was planning to come.

“Maybe it is,” I admit.

Elliot shakes his head. “Then make it count. If you’re going to risk your position for Maya Navarro, make sure it’s worth the gamble.”

After he leaves, I sit alone staring at the photo of Maya and me learning Tinikling. We look happy together, natural, like people who genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

Harrison is right about one thing—my judgment regarding Maya has become personal. The question is whether I’m willing to bet my career on it.

My phone buzzes with a text from Maya:

Festival starts at 10 AM tomorrow. Hope you can still make it.

I stare at the message, thinking about site visits and board expectations and the dangerous territory I’m entering.

Then I type back:

I’ll be there.