Page 29 of Worth the Risk (Worth It All #1)
By now, three hours after the news officially broke, Maya should know.
Yet I don’t expect her to call—even as I can’t help but glance at my silent phone sitting on the garden table beside a tray of tomato seedlings I’ve been transplanting since the sun rose.
It rang nonstop for the first hour after the news broke—reporters wanting statements, Pierce Enterprises executives demanding explanations, legal teams scrambling to put together the final paperwork for the press conference in two hours.
By the fifteenth call, I had to set it down on the patio table, needing space to think, to work with my hands, to do something that creates rather than destroy.
For three years as Pierce Enterprises’ CEO, I spent my mornings reviewing demolition schedules and profit projections. Today, I’m planting heirloom tomatoes in soil my grandfather tended forty years ago, and somehow this feels like the most important work I’ve done in months.
I don’t expect Maya to thank me for buying Highland.
In her position, I wouldn’t thank someone for solving a problem with money that could have been applied months ago.
What I hope—what I’ve been hoping while transplanting seedlings and mulching flower beds—is that she’ll understand that Highland’s salvation wasn’t about providing rescue.
It was about honoring the legal framework she’d already created.
Because that’s what changed everything—learning that Maya had spent two weeks researching community land trusts, that she’d used her father’s life insurance money to hire the best legal team in California, that all the documentation was ready and waiting for someone to provide the capital.
Maya hadn’t given up—she’d been building the solution I was too blind to see.
As the morning air carries the scent of jasmine and fresh earth I barely appreciated before I met her, Pierce Enterprises’ corporate language of “development opportunities” and “underutilized properties” feels foreign now, like vocabulary from a life I’ve outgrown.
Instead, I’m pressing soil around a Cherokee Purple tomato plant while wondering what it would taste like when harvested in a few months. Considering I no longer have a job, I’ll have all the time in the world.
The sound of the doorbell ringing pulls me out of my reveries and for a moment, I consider ignoring it.
The press conference isn’t for two hours and I’m not ready to field more questions about why I walked away from my father’s company to buy back a community center.
Besides, the garden feels like a sanctuary—the first place I’ve been able to think clearly since resigning as CEO a week ago.
But the bell rings again, followed by a familiar voice calling my name.
Maya.
I stand quickly, brushing soil from my hands on the old gardening clothes I threw on this morning—jeans with holes in the knees, a faded UCLA T-shirt that’s seen better decades. Not exactly CEO attire, but I’m not a CEO anymore.
I walk around the side of the house to find Maya standing at my front door, wearing jeans and a Highland Community Center T-shirt, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Her expression is unreadable, but there’s something in her posture—not anger, exactly, but a controlled energy that suggests she’s been thinking as hard as I have.
“Maya.” I stop a few feet away, suddenly aware of the dirt under my fingernails and the soil stains on my clothes. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“We need to talk.” Her voice is steady, controlled. “About Highland. About the Navarro Community Trust. About the fact that you apparently used my legal work to buy the building I’ve been trying to save for six months.”
The accusation should sting, but instead it feels like relief. She knows. She understands that Highland’s salvation wasn’t my idea—it was hers, activated by my resources.
“You’re right,” I tell her. “I did use your legal work. Every document, every city approval, every piece of the framework you created with Kemp & Associates. Highland exists as a community land trust because you built the legal structure that made it possible.”
“How did you know about Kemp & Associates?” Maya steps closer, studying my expression. “How did you know I’d been working on community land trust establishment?”
“Elliot found out through his contact at the planning commission. When I told him I was considering buying Highland, he mentioned that someone had already filed preliminary community land trust documentation.” I run a hand through my hair, probably leaving more soil streaks.
“Maya, when I learned you’d been preparing the exact solution I was trying to figure out, it changed everything. ”
“Changed it how?”
“It changed my understanding from sole proprietor to partner. You’d already done the hardest part—navigating legal complexities, securing community input, getting city approvals. I just provided the capital that activated months of work you thought was pointless.”
Maya is quiet for a moment, her gaze drifting past me toward the garden where tomato seedlings sit in neat rows, waiting to be planted. “You’ve been gardening.”
“I’ve been thinking. And planting. Turns out I like creating things more than demolishing them.” I gesture toward the garden. “My grandfather grew vegetables here for thirty years. I never understood the appeal until this morning.”
“What changed this morning?”
“This morning, I woke up knowing I’d never have to coordinate another community displacement.
Never have to measure success in quarterly profits.
Never have to pretend that luxury developments matter more than the gathering places they replace.
” I pause, studying her expression. “This morning, I realized that some kinds of growth are worth waiting for.”
Something shifts in Maya’s eyes—not quite forgiveness, but a softening that gives me hope.
“Declan, I spent my father’s entire life insurance policy on legal fees for the community land trust establishment.
Two hundred thousand dollars on documentation that I thought would be useless without fifteen million in capital. ”
“It wasn’t useless. It was the foundation that made Highland’s salvation possible.”
“But you could have provided that capital months ago. You could have prevented all of this—the board vote, Highland’s dissolution, three weeks of crisis management while families adjusted to scattered programming.”
The accusation hits exactly where it should. “You’re right. I should have thought of direct purchase earlier. I should have realized that some problems require individual action rather than corporate collaboration.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
It’s the question I’ve been asking myself while transplanting seedlings and mulching flower beds. Why did it take Elliot’s revelation about Maya’s legal work to make me consider the obvious solution?
“Because I was still thinking like Pierce Enterprises’ CEO instead of like someone who’d learned what community preservation actually requires.
” I gesture for her to enter the house and follow me into the garden.
“For three years, I approached every problem through corporate frameworks—board votes, profit analyses, regulatory compliance. It never occurred to me that some things are too important to leave to corporate democracy.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m learning to think like someone who believes communities matter more than quarterly reports.
Someone who’d rather plant tomatoes than review demolition schedules.
” I pause, pulling up a wrought iron chair when we reach the patio.
“Someone who’d rather be Maya Navarro’s partner than Pierce Enterprises’ CEO. ”
Maya sits down. “The Navarro Community Trust. You named it after my family.”
I lean against the table. “I named it after the people who understand that community preservation requires both vision and persistence. Your father’s vision, your persistence, and now your legal framework that guarantees Highland will never be threatened again.”
Tears gather in her eyes, and I see her careful composure beginning to crack.
“Declan, I’ve been so angry–at you, at myself, at everything.
For three weeks, I thought we’d failed Highland completely.
I thought all our collaboration, all our research, everything we discovered together wasn’t enough to save what mattered most.”
“We didn’t fail Highland.” The words come out rougher than intended.
“Maya, we lost our battle because Harrison had the deciding vote, but that doesn’t mean the war was over.
Resigning from Pierce Enterprises, buying Highland using your legal work, establishing the foundation—all of that was about finishing what we started together. ”
“And if I can’t forgive myself for losing faith? If three weeks of thinking Highland was lost forever can’t be undone by what you’ve accomplished?”
“Then Highland will still be protected by the legal framework you created, and the foundation will still help other communities establish land trusts before they face displacement.” I reach for her hands, relief flooding through me when she doesn’t pull away.
“Maya, I’m not trying to erase the past three weeks.
I’m trying to honor the work you’ve already done and prove that our collaboration was never pointless. ”
She studies our joined hands, her thumb tracing across my knuckles in the gentle touch I’ve missed desperately. “You really used my legal documentation? All of it?”
“Every page. Kemp & Associates did extraordinary work—ironclad protections against future development, guaranteed community control, sustainable funding structures. Highland exists as a community land trust because you built the framework that made it legally possible.”
“I thought all that work was pointless. I thought I’d wasted my father’s insurance money on legal documentation that would never be implemented.”