Page 15 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)

I’m still thinking about our kiss when my phone rings at two PM. The memory of Declan’s hands cupping my face, the way he said he needed to know if what he was feeling was mutual—it’s been replaying in my mind for hours, making it impossible to concentrate on grant applications.

His name on the caller ID makes my pulse quicken.

“How did the board meeting go?” I answer without preamble.

“Mixed results.” His voice sounds tired. “Can we meet? I have information about the collaboration timeline, but I’d rather discuss it in person.”

“Highland or Pierce Enterprises?”

“Actually...” He pauses. “Would you be willing to meet somewhere neutral? I know a coffee shop in the arts district that’s quiet, good for private conversations.”

After what happened in the storage room, maybe we both need space that doesn’t carry Highland’s history or Pierce Enterprises’ corporate power.

“Is this about what happened this morning?” I ask quietly.

“We need to discuss the board meeting first. But Maya, we should probably talk about this morning too.”

I take a deep breath. “Where and when?”

“Groundwork Coffee on Spring Street. Four o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

Groundwork Coffee is exactly the kind of place I’d choose myself—local, unpretentious, with mismatched furniture and local art covering exposed brick walls. Busy enough to provide privacy through ambient noise but not so crowded we can’t talk freely.

I arrive first and choose a corner table, ordering a latte and trying to calm the nervous energy building since Declan’s phone call.

When Declan walks through the door at exactly four o’clock, scanning the room until his gaze finds mine, my reaction has everything to do with remembering his mouth on mine and nothing to do with business meetings.

He’s changed out of whatever he wore to the board meeting—dark jeans and a button-down shirt with rolled sleeves. The casual clothes make him look like the man who followed me into the storage room, not the CEO who has to justify decisions to directors.

“Maya.” He settles into the chair across from me. “Thank you for meeting me here.”

“Of course. How bad is the board situation?”

He orders an espresso from the passing barista before answering. “Harrison is pushing for accelerated timelines. The board wants definitive decisions about Highland’s future within two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” My stomach drops. “That’s not enough time to file for historic designation, let alone develop comprehensive preservation plans.”

“I know. But we have construction contracts, investor expectations, and shareholders who are losing patience with community engagement processes.”

I study his face, noting the tension around his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Harrison suspects that my judgment is compromised.” Declan meets my gaze directly. “He thinks I’m too personally involved with you to negotiate objectively.”

Heat creeps up my neck as I remember the intensity in his eyes right before he kissed me. “Are you?”

“After this morning, I think we both know the answer to that.” His voice is quiet. “My judgment where you’re concerned is definitely compromised.”

“What does that mean for Highland?”

“It means I need to be extra careful to make decisions based on facts, not emotions. And it means I need to give you complete information, even when it’s not what you want to hear.”

“Such as?”

Declan pulls out his phone and shows me a financial projection.

“The board approved one final collaboration meeting. You’ll present your preservation proposal to the full board next Monday.

If they approve moving forward with mixed-use development and historic designation, Highland survives. If they don’t...”

“Highland gets demolished.”

He nods. “Highland gets demolished.”

I stare at the phone screen, processing the timeline. One week to prepare a presentation that will determine Highland’s future. One chance to convince five board members who see community centers as obstacles to profit margins.

“What are my odds?”

“Honestly? Thirty percent, maybe forty if your financial projections are extraordinary.”

“That’s not very encouraging.”

“It’s realistic.” Declan leans forward. “Maya, I want to be clear about something. I will advocate for Highland in that boardroom. I will present every argument, every financial benefit, every strategic advantage we’ve identified. But ultimately, this comes down to numbers.”

The espresso arrives, and Declan thanks the barista without looking away from me.

“This is a lot of pressure,” I say finally.

“Yes, it is.” Declan reaches across the table, his hand covering mine before I can think to pull away. “On both of us.”

The warmth of his touch sends electricity up my arm, and I realize we’re holding hands in a public coffee shop, blurring every professional boundary we’ve tried to maintain.

“Declan.” I look down at our joined hands. “What are we doing? Really doing?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, his thumb tracing across my knuckles. “But I know I can’t pretend this morning didn’t happen.”

The gentle touch makes my breath catch. “We said nothing had to change.”

“We lied.” His voice is soft but certain. “Maya, everything changed the moment I kissed you.”

I should pull my hand away, redirect our conversation back to Highland’s presentation timeline. Instead, I find myself studying the way his fingers intertwine with mine.

“What would your girlfriend think about this?” I ask, fishing for information I’m not sure I want.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” His response is immediate. “I can’t, not when I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“You can’t stop thinking about me?”

“Maya, before I met you, I’d spend evenings at gallery openings or charity events, usually with someone whose name I’d forget by morning.” He pauses. “Now I spend my nights working on Highland research or thinking about our next meeting because there’s no one else I’d rather be with.”

The confession makes my chest tighten with emotion I can’t afford to feel. “That’s... that’s probably not healthy.”

“Probably not.” His smile is rueful. “What about you? What do you do when you’re not fighting to save Highland?”

“I go home to my apartment.” The admission sounds pathetic. “I read, sometimes watch old movies. Work on grant applications. It’s not very exciting.”

“It sounds peaceful.”

“It sounds boring,” I correct, feeling heat creep up my neck. “I know it’s not much—just a one-bedroom place in an old building. I could have bought something bigger, but I’ve been saving my money for...” I trail off, not ready to explain about Papa’s life insurance money. “Other things.”

“There’s nothing wrong with saving money. Or with quiet evenings at home.” Declan’s thumb continues its gentle movement across my knuckles. “Where is home?”

“The Meridian Apartments. On Figueroa.” I pause. “It’s this old 1920s building—probably nothing like where you live.”

Something shifts in Declan’s expression. “The Meridian? That’s the Spanish Colonial Revival building with the courtyard gardens?”

“You know it?”

“I know of it. It’s actually on the National Register of Historic Places. Beautiful restoration work.” His voice carries genuine appreciation. “Your apartment is in a historic building?”

“Third floor, overlooking the courtyard.” I’m surprised by his knowledge of the building’s history. “Most people just see it as old apartments.”

“Most people don’t understand that old doesn’t mean outdated. Sometimes it means carefully preserved.” His gaze grows more intense. “Sometimes the things worth saving are the ones with the most history.”

The way he says it makes me wonder if we’re still talking about buildings.

“Maya,” Declan says quietly, “what are we really doing here? Because sitting in this coffee shop, holding your hand, talking about everything except Highland’s presentation—this doesn’t feel like professional collaboration.”

“No,” I agree, though I don’t pull my hand away. “It doesn’t.”

“So what is it?”

I study Declan’s face, noting the way the late-afternoon light catches in his eyes, the careful way he’s waiting for my response.

“I think it’s us trying to figure out if what happened this morning was a mistake or the beginning of something we can’t ignore anymore.”

“And what’s your verdict?”

I’m quiet for a moment, acutely aware of his thumb still tracing gentle patterns across my skin. “I think we’re both in trouble.”

“Good trouble or bad trouble?”

“I don’t know yet.” I finally pull my hand away, needing space to think clearly. “Declan, Highland’s presentation is in one week. Everything I’ve worked for, everything my father built, depends on convincing your board that preservation makes business sense.”

“I know.”

“And you’re telling me your judgment is compromised because of personal feelings for me.”

“I’m telling you I’ll advocate for Highland regardless of those feelings. But yes, my objectivity where you’re concerned is questionable at best.”

I lean back in my chair, trying to process the implications. “This is complicated.”

“Very complicated.” Declan finishes his espresso. “But Maya, complicated doesn’t mean impossible. It just means we need to be careful.”

“Careful how?”

“Honest with each other about what we want. Clear about priorities. Highland comes first—we both agree on that. But after Highland’s future is decided...”

“After Highland’s future is decided, what?”

“After Highland’s future is decided, maybe we can figure out what this is between us without the pressure of professional obligations.”

The suggestion is reasonable, logical, exactly what we should do. But sitting in this coffee shop, watching the way he looks at me, I realize that waiting might be easier said than done.

“I should go,” I say, gathering my bag. “I have a lot of work to do before Monday’s presentation.”

“Of course.” Declan stands as I do, pulling out his wallet. “Maya?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for being honest with me. About Highland, about this morning, about all of it.”

“Thank you for advocating for Highland even when it complicates your life.”

We walk toward the coffee shop door together, maintaining careful distance but hyperaware of each other’s proximity. At the exit, Declan pauses.

“Good luck with the presentation preparation. If you need anything—research support, additional documentation, someone to review your talking points—let me know.”

“I will.” I hesitate, then add, “Declan? What you said about not being able to stop thinking about me?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s mutual.”

His sharp intake of breath is the only sign that my admission affects him. “Good to know.”

“Good night, Declan.”

“Good night, Maya.”

I walk to my car while he heads in the opposite direction, but I can feel his gaze on me until I’m out of sight.

Only when I’m driving home do I allow myself to acknowledge how much I wanted him to ask if he could see me tonight, how much I wanted to give him my apartment number instead of just the building name.

How much I wanted to stop pretending that what’s developing between us can wait until Highland’s future is decided.

But Highland comes first. Highland has to come first.

Even when my heart is starting to suggest that some things might be worth the risk of complicating everything.