Page 13 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

It’s six AM and I’m in my office, staring at the photos Carlo took at Highland’s festival. In the pictures, Maya and I look intimate. Natural. Like we belong together.

Which is exactly the problem.

The past three weeks have blurred into something far beyond professional partnership.

Evening computer classes where I help Highland’s seniors while Maya coordinates programming.

Late-night research sessions that turn into conversations about everything except development strategy.

Shared dinners at Highland’s community table, where Rosa treats me like family and Tita Sol asks pointed questions about my intentions.

Somewhere between teaching Mrs. Santos to video-call her grandchildren and helping Maya troubleshoot Highland’s ancient heating system at ten PM on a Thursday, our careful professional boundaries dissolved completely.

And last Friday night, in Highland’s storage room surrounded by twenty years of community history, I kissed Maya Navarro like my life depended on it.

Now I have a board meeting in three hours where Harrison will expect an update on our “Highland situation,” and I can’t stop thinking about the way Maya felt in my arms, the soft sound she made when I pressed her against the shelving, the way she looked at me afterward like we’d crossed a line we can never uncross.

Because we had.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Maya:

Morning meeting still on for 8 AM? I have the final financial projections ready.

Maya. Even her text messages make my pulse quicken, especially now that I know how she tastes, how perfectly she fits against me.

Declan:

Yes. Highland or Pierce Enterprises?

Maya:

Highland. I’m already here working on the presentation materials.

Of course she is. Maya probably arrived before dawn, coffee in hand, putting finishing touches on research that could save her father’s legacy.

Declan:

See you at 8.

I arrive at Highland to find the main hall transformed back into its weekday configuration—folding tables for after-school programs, art supplies for children’s classes, computers for job training.

But there are small changes I’ve started to notice—a new coffee maker Rosa insisted we needed, updated lighting in the conference room, my business cards sitting near Highland’s front desk like I belong here.

Maya emerges from her office carrying folders and wearing jeans with a Highland Community Center T-shirt. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and when she sees me, her smile is soft, intimate—different from the careful politeness of a month ago.

“Good morning,” she says, and there’s warmth in her voice that wasn’t there before.

“Good morning.” I want to kiss her hello, but Highland’s main hall is already filling with morning volunteers, and we haven’t discussed how public we’re willing to be about whatever this has become.

“Coffee’s fresh,” Maya continues, settling across from me and opening her folders. “And I have everything ready for your board presentation. Financial projections, architectural renderings, timeline proposals—the works.”

I note the slight shadows under her eyes. “Working late again?”

“Perfecting the research,” she corrects. “Declan, this is our one chance to convince Pierce Enterprises’ board that preservation makes business sense. It has to be flawless.”

She spreads documents across the table—comprehensive financial analysis, detailed preservation timelines, architectural plans for mixed-use development.

I force myself to focus on the numbers instead of remembering how her hands felt fisted in my shirt, how her fingers traced the line of my jaw when we finally broke apart.

“These numbers are incredible,” I tell her. “Maya, this research is better than anything Pierce Enterprises’ development team has ever produced.”

“It has to be.” Her voice carries the weight of everything Highland’s community is counting on. “Historic tax credits, transit-oriented development incentives, premium pricing for authentic neighborhood character—every financial benefit increases Highland’s chances.”

I study the projections, noting how thoroughly she’s addressed every concern the board might raise.

But I also notice the way she bites her lower lip when concentrating, how her eyes light up when discussing preservation strategies, how she unconsciously leans closer when we review documents together.

Four weeks of collaboration have taught me that Maya Navarro is brilliant, passionate, and completely devoted to Highland’s mission. They’ve also taught me that I’m falling for her with a certainty that terrifies me.

“Maya.” I set down the financial projections and look directly at her. “I want you to know that I’m taking this seriously. Not just the research, not just the collaboration, but Highland’s future. What we’re building here.”

“What are we building?” The question is soft, uncertain.

Before I can answer, my phone rings. Harrison Gordon. Calling two hours before our scheduled board meeting.

“I need to take this,” I tell Maya, stepping away from the table.

“Declan.” Harrison’s voice cuts through the line like winter. “I hope you’re prepared for this morning’s presentation.”

“The Highland proposal is ready. Maya’s research is comprehensive.”

“Good. Because the board is growing impatient with this collaboration experiment. We need concrete results, not more community engagement reports.”

“The financial projections show significant profit potential through historic preservation and mixed-use development.”

“Projections are theoretical. What we need are timelines, measurable outcomes, and definitive decisions about Highland’s future.” Harrison’s tone sharpens. “Declan, I need to ask you something directly.”

Ice floods my veins. “What?”

“Are you maintaining appropriate professional boundaries with Maya Navarro?”

The question hits like a physical blow. “I’m focused on finding solutions that work for both Highland and Pierce Enterprises.”

“That’s not what I asked. Reports suggest your relationship with Miss Navarro has become quite... personal.”

“My relationship with Highland’s leadership is collaborative and professional.”

“Is it? Because what I’m hearing suggests otherwise. And if your judgment has been compromised by personal feelings, the board needs to know.”

I close my eyes, thinking about Friday night in the storage room, about the way Maya’s breathing quickened when I kissed her neck, about how we’ve been pretending nothing has changed while knowing everything has.

“My judgment is sound,” I tell Harrison.

“For your sake, I hope that’s true. Because this board meeting will determine whether the Highland collaboration continues or whether we move to immediate demolition proceedings.”

The line goes dead.

When I return to our table, Maya is pretending to review documents, but tension radiates from her shoulders.

“Bad news?” she asks.

“Board pressure.” I sit down, running a hand through my hair. “They want concrete timelines and measurable outcomes.”

“What kind of timelines?”

“The kind that end with definitive decisions about Highland’s future.” I meet her gaze directly. “Maya, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me.”

“Okay.”

“If the collaboration concludes that preservation isn’t financially viable—if the numbers don’t work—what happens then?”

She’s quiet for a moment. “Then Highland fights. Legal challenges, bigger protests, public battles that make last month’s media coverage look restrained.”

“Even if it means destroying any chance of negotiated relocation assistance?”

“Highland’s value isn’t just financial, Declan. Sometimes you have to fight for things that matter, even when the odds are impossible.”

Her answer is exactly what I expected and exactly what Harrison fears. Maya won’t back down quietly if our collaboration fails.

“What are you thinking?” Maya asks.

“I’m thinking that we need to make this work.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Not just for Highland, not just for Pierce Enterprises, but because the alternative is a battle that will hurt everyone involved.”

“And how do we make it work?”

“By giving the board something concrete. Timelines, financial projections, proof that historic preservation isn’t just theoretical.”

Maya nods, opening another folder. “Tito Ricky thinks we can get preliminary historic designation approval within two weeks if we file the right paperwork. That would provide legal protection while we develop detailed preservation plans.”

“Two weeks.” I consider the timeline. “Maya, I need you to understand something about Pierce Enterprises’ board.

They’re not patient people, and they’re not sentimental about community preservation.

If we’re going to convince them, we need overwhelming evidence that preserving Highland is more profitable than demolishing it. ”

“I understand.” Maya’s expression grows serious. “What do you need from me?”

“Complete financial transparency. Highland’s operating costs, maintenance requirements, projected renovation expenses—everything. No surprises, no optimistic estimates, just hard numbers.”

“You’ll have them.” She pauses. “What do you need from yourself?”

The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Harrison’s phone call obviously rattled you. And not just because of board pressure.”

I study her face, noting the genuine concern in her expression. She’s asking about more than business strategy. She’s asking whether I can handle the personal complications of working closely with her while maintaining professional objectivity.

“I need to stay focused on solutions instead of...” I trail off, unsure how to finish honestly.

“Instead of?”

“Instead of thinking about kissing you in Highland’s storage room. About the way you felt in my arms.” The admission comes out rougher than I intended. “Maya, I need to be completely honest with you about something.”

“What?”