Page 12 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

“Maya, Rosa wants to know if Declan knows any other traditional dances. Apparently, there’s betting going on about whether he’ll ask you to dance to the live music later.”

“There’s betting?”

“Rosa started it. Tita Sol doubled down. Carlo’s running a pool on whether you two will end up together by the end of the collaboration.” Lianne’s grin is pure trouble. “I may have placed money on true love conquering corporate greed.”

The live band—Filipino-American musicians who play everything from traditional folk songs to contemporary pop—sets up on the stage where we performed Carinosa. Community members begin clearing space for social dancing.

“Maya!” Rosa calls from across the room. “Come dance with your young man!”

Every head in the vicinity turns toward us, and heat floods my cheeks.

“He’s not my?—”

“Would you like to dance?” Declan appears at my elbow. The band has started playing something slow and romantic, and couples are moving onto the improvised dance floor. Around us, community members watch with the kind of expectant attention usually reserved for wedding receptions.

“You don’t have to,” I tell him. “I know this isn’t exactly your usual Saturday entertainment.”

“Maya.” He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “I want to dance with you. Not because the community expects it, not because it’s good for our collaboration, but because I’ve been thinking about it since we finished the Carinosa.”

The honesty in his voice makes my breath catch. “Okay.”

He offers his hand, and I take it, letting him lead me onto the makeshift dance floor. The band plays something soft and lilting, with just enough rhythm to sway to. Declan’s hand settles at the small of my back, warm and steady through the thin fabric of my dress.

“This is nice,” he says as we begin to move together.

“Highland’s festivals usually are.” I’m hyperaware of everywhere our bodies touch—his hand on my back, my palm against his shoulder, the space between us close enough to feel his warmth.

“I meant dancing with you.”

The simple statement sends heat spiraling through my chest. We’re surrounded by Highland’s community, swaying to romantic music under strings of lights that cast everything in warm, golden glow. It should feel like performance, like we’re playing roles for our professional collaboration’s benefit.

Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

“Declan.” I look up at him. “What are we doing?”

“Dancing,” he says simply.

“You know what I mean.”

His hand tightens slightly on my back, pulling me a fraction closer. “I think we’re figuring that out as we go.”

The song changes to something even slower, and around us other couples move closer together. Declan follows their lead, eliminating the careful space we’ve been maintaining. Now I can feel the solid warmth of his chest against mine, catch the scent of his cologne mixed with lingering feast aromas.

“Maya.” His voice is lower now, meant only for me. “I need to tell you something.”

“What?”

“This collaboration—working with you, spending time at Highland, getting to know your community—it’s changing how I think about a lot of things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as whether profit margins are really the most important measure of success. Whether my father’s approach to business was the only way to build something meaningful.

” He pauses, his thumb tracing a small circle against my back.

“Whether I want to be the kind of man who can walk away from someone like you when this is over.”

The admission hangs between us, honest and vulnerable and completely inappropriate for a professional collaboration. I should step back, remind him that we’re business partners working on Highland’s future, not potential lovers swaying to romantic music at a community festival.

Instead, I find myself moving closer, my free hand sliding from his shoulder to rest against his chest where I can feel his heartbeat, quick and strong beneath my palm.

“This is complicated,” I murmur.

“I know.”

“You’re still the CEO of the company that wants to demolish Highland.”

“I know that, too.”

“And I’m still the woman who will fight you with everything I have if this collaboration doesn’t work.”

“I’m counting on it.” His smile is soft. “I’d be disappointed if you were anything less than fierce about protecting what matters to you.”

The song ends, but neither of us moves to step apart. Around us, couples transition to the next dance or return to conversations and food, but we remain still in the center of the makeshift dance floor.

“Thank you,” Declan says quietly. “For including me today. For letting me be part of this.”

“Thank you for coming. For learning the dances, for being patient with Rosa’s questions.” I pause. “For surprising me.”

His smile is warm. “You’ve been surprising me since the moment you scattered those petition papers across my office floor.”

I laugh despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach, and the sound seems to break whatever spell has been holding us in place.

“I should probably mingle,” I say eventually. “Make sure everything’s running smoothly.”

“Of course.” But he doesn’t step away immediately. “Maya?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad I came today. Highland’s community is extraordinary. I understand now why you fight so hard to protect this.”

The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tighten with emotion. “I’m glad you came too.”

Before either of us can say anything else that might complicate our professional relationship further, Carlo Martinez appears with a camera and an eager expression.

“Maya, Mr. Pierce, can I get a photo for the newsletter? Tita Sol wants to document community partnerships.”

I should say no. Photos of Declan and me dancing will fuel every piece of gossip and speculation already circulating. But something in his expression—hopeful, slightly nervous, like he’s asking for permission to be part of our documented history—makes the decision for me.

“Of course,” I tell Carlo.

Declan’s arm tightens around my waist, and I rest my hand on his chest as Carlo snaps several photos. We’re not posing for romance exactly, but there’s intimacy in the way we stand together that will be obvious to anyone who sees the pictures.

“Perfect!” Carlo grins as he reviews the photos. “These will look great in next month’s newsletter.”

After he leaves, Declan and I remain standing close together.

The festival continues around us—families sharing food, teenagers learning traditional dances, elderly community members telling stories about the Philippines—but I’m acutely aware of the man beside me and the dangerous territory we’re exploring.

“I should go check on the kitchen,” I say, needing space to process everything that just happened between us.

“I’ll see if Tita Sol needs help with cleanup.”

We separate, moving in different directions through the crowded main hall.

But as I help Rosa organize leftover food and coordinate volunteer schedules, I’m hyperaware of Declan’s presence across the room.

I catch glimpses of him stacking chairs, carrying supplies, engaging in what appears to be serious conversation with Tito Ricky.

He fits here, I realize with a start. Not perfectly—his clothes are too expensive, his background too privileged, his world too far removed from our daily reality. But he’s making an effort to understand, to contribute, to be useful rather than ornamental.

And that’s more dangerous to my carefully guarded heart than any amount of corporate charm or strategic maneuvering.