Page 11 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

The smell of adobo and lumpia fills Highland’s main hall as I weave between tables laden with Filipino delicacies, checking last-minute details for the heritage festival.

Colorful banners hang from the ceiling, traditional music plays softly in the background, and three generations of families set up displays showcasing Filipino culture and history.

This is Highland at its best—vibrant, welcoming, alive with community energy.

“Maya, anak, where do you want the lechon?” Rosa calls from the kitchen doorway, gesturing toward enough roasted pork to feed half of downtown LA.

“Main table, center position,” I call back, then catch sight of Tita Sol directing teenagers in traditional dress toward the makeshift stage.

I check my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. One-fifteen PM. The festival officially started at ten this morning, and Highland’s main hall is crowded with families, community members, and half the arts district.

But no sign of Declan Pierce.

Which shouldn’t matter. This is Highland’s celebration, not some elaborate test of whether Pierce Enterprises’ CEO will show up to eat Filipino food and watch traditional dances. The festival would be perfect with or without him.

Except I keep scanning the crowd for storm-gray eyes and broad shoulders, and I hate that I’m disappointed by his absence.

“Looking for someone?” Lianne appears at my elbow with a knowing smile, balancing a plate of lumpia and wine in a tumbler.

“Making sure everything’s running smoothly,” I lie.

“Uh-huh.” Lianne follows my gaze toward the entrance. “And if Declan Pierce happens to walk through that door?”

“I will consider it proof that he takes our collaboration seriously.”

“Maya.” Lianne gives me the look she’s perfected over ten years of friendship—the one that says she sees right through whatever story I’m telling myself. “You like him.”

“I like that he’s offering Highland alternatives to demolition.”

“You like him,” she repeats. “As in, you’re attracted to the man who could save or destroy everything your father built, and you have no idea what to do about it.”

Before I can deny her completely accurate assessment, Carlo Martinez rushes over with panic written across his face.

“Maya, we have a problem. The Carinosa demonstration needs more couples, and half our volunteers didn’t show up.”

Carinosa—the traditional courtship dance that requires pairs to move through intricate patterns while maintaining eye contact and subtle flirtation. Beautiful, romantic, and absolutely requiring an even number of participants.

“How many couples do we have?” I ask.

“Three. We need at least five for the demonstration to look right.”

I scan the crowd for possible volunteers. Most teenagers are committed to other performances, the seniors who know Carinosa are busy with family, and middle-aged volunteers handle food service.

“Maya could dance,” Lianne suggests. “She knows all the traditional steps.”

“I’m coordinating the festival,” I protest. “I can’t abandon my?—”

“Looking for a dance partner?”

The familiar voice makes me turn, and suddenly Declan Pierce stands behind me in dark jeans and a button-down shirt that makes his gray eyes look like silver. He holds a bottle of wine and wears an uncertain smile.

My pulse speeds up at his proximity. “You came.”

“I said I would.” He hands me the wine—expensive but not ostentatiously so. “I hope I’m not too late.”

“You have perfect timing,” Carlo interrupts, relief flooding his voice. “Maya needs a partner for the Carinosa demonstration.”

“Carlo—” I start to protest, but Declan already looks intrigued.

“Carinosa?”

“Traditional Filipino courtship dance,” Lianne explains helpfully. “Very romantic. Lots of eye contact and graceful movements that symbolize tentative approach between potential lovers.”

I want to sink through Highland’s concrete floor. “It’s just a cultural demonstration. You don’t have to?—”

“I’d be honored,” Declan says, his gaze fixed on my face. “If you’ll have me as a partner.”

The way he says “partner” sends heat spiraling through my chest. We’re talking about a five-minute dance performance, but something in his tone makes it feel like a much bigger question.

“The performance starts in twenty minutes,” Carlo says. “I’ll show you the basic steps.”

Before I can object, Carlo leads us toward a quiet corner where he demonstrates the Carinosa pattern. The dance appears simple—graceful movements bringing partners close together and apart, hands almost touching but never quite connecting, eyes meeting and holding across the space between dancers.

“The key is the eye contact,” Carlo explains. “Carinosa tells the story of courtship through glances and gestures. The man approaches, the woman responds, they circle each other with growing interest.”

I watch Declan absorb the instructions, his complete focus on Carlo’s demonstration. When he turns to practice with me, his attention centers entirely on learning the steps correctly.

“Like this?” He moves through the pattern, his natural coordination making unfamiliar steps look almost graceful.

“Exactly. But remember, it’s not just about footwork.” Carlo grins. “The story is told through how you look at each other.”

Declan’s eyes meet mine, and suddenly the practice session feels much more intimate than a dance lesson.

There’s a moment of awareness between us—an acknowledgment that we’re about to perform a courtship dance in front of Highland’s entire community while our professional collaboration hangs in the balance.

“Ready?” I ask, though I’m not sure I’m ready for any of this.

“Ready,” he says, but his voice sounds softer than usual, almost uncertain.

Twenty minutes pass in a blur of final preparations, then Tita Sol announces the Carinosa demonstration.

The crowd gathers around the makeshift stage.

I find myself standing in line with four other couples, traditional Filipino music beginning to play, very aware of Declan beside me adjusting his shirt cuffs.

“Relax,” I murmur as the opening notes build. “It’s just a dance.”

“Right,” he murmurs back. “Just a dance.”

But as the music swells and we begin moving through the Carinosa pattern, it becomes clear this is anything but “just a dance.” The choreography brings us together and draws us apart in a rhythm that feels deliberate and meaningful.

When the steps call for eye contact, Declan’s gaze holds mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

When we circle each other with graceful movements, the space between us feels charged with possibility.

The dance tells the story of tentative approach and growing attraction, and somehow, we’re telling that story with our bodies, our movements, our eyes.

The other couples fade into the background; the watching crowd disappears.

There’s only the music, the pattern of steps, and the way Declan looks at me like I’m the only person in the room.

When the choreography calls for the men to kneel while women dance around them with flowing scarves, Declan drops to one knee and looks up at me with such focused attention that I nearly stumble.

When I brush the scarf lightly across his shoulders—the traditional gesture of tentative acceptance—my fingers graze his neck, and he shivers.

The final movement brings all couples together in the center of the stage, hands almost touching, faces close enough that I can see the gold flecks in Declan’s gray eyes and catch the scent of his cologne.

For a moment, the music holds us suspended in that space between approach and contact, and I’m acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, his quickened breathing, the fact that we’re standing so close I could count his eyelashes.

Then the music ends, the crowd erupts in applause, and reality crashes back.

“Beautiful!” Tita Sol calls out. “Absolutely beautiful! You two looked like you’ve been dancing together for years!”

I step back from Declan, suddenly aware we’ve just performed an intimate courtship dance in front of half Highland’s community. The knowing smiles and approving nods around us suggest Tita Sol isn’t the only one who noticed the chemistry between us.

“Thank you,” Declan says, offering his hand to help me down from the makeshift stage. His fingers are warm, steady, and he doesn’t let go immediately after I step down.

“That was...” I struggle to find words that describe what just happened without acknowledging how affected I am.

“Intense,” he finishes quietly. “I wasn’t expecting it to feel so...”

“Personal?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushes across my knuckles before he releases my hand. “Personal.”

Before I can respond, Rosa appears with plates of food, and suddenly we’re swept into the festival’s social current—introduced to community members, offered samples of every dish, included in conversations about Filipino traditions and LA’s changing neighborhoods.

Declan handles it with surprising grace. He listens when elderly relatives share immigration stories, asks thoughtful questions about traditional recipes, and makes everyone feel like he’s genuinely interested in their perspectives.

“Your boyfriend is very nice,” Tita Sol tells me as we watch Declan attempt to eat lumpia without dripping sauce on his shirt.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I correct automatically.

“Hmm.” Tita Sol’s smile is knowing. “Does he know that?”

I follow her gaze to where Declan is helping Carlo’s younger sister reach the dessert table, lifting her easily so she can choose between leche flan and halo-halo. The gesture appears casual, unconscious, natural.

“He’s good with people,” I observe.

“He’s good with you,” Tita Sol corrects. “I watched that dance, Maya. That man wasn’t performing for the crowd.”

Before I can ask what she means, Lianne appears with another glass of wine and a mischievous expression.