Page 8 of Worth the Wait (Worth It All #2)

One week.

It’s been exactly seven days since the venue walkthrough at Esperanza Resort, and I haven’t heard from Cameron at all. Not once.

And I’m not happy about that.

Sure, it’s exactly what I wanted, right? Professional boundaries. No personal complications. Strictly business. Everything controlled and predictable.

So why do I keep checking my phone like a teenager waiting for her crush to text?

And why am I upset that he hasn’t done the daily check-ins he originally proposed?

“You’re going to pop that balloon if you tie it any tighter,” Maya’s voice cuts through my brooding as I wrestle with a stubborn ribbon.

I look down to find I’ve been strangling a bright-yellow balloon while my mind wandered to places it has no business going.

Around us, Highland Community Center’s social hall buzzes with activity as volunteers transform the space for tomorrow night’s Filipino-American Friendship celebration.

Paper lanterns in vibrant reds and golds hang from the ceiling, tables draped in traditional textiles wait for centerpieces, and the air smells like the sampaguita flowers we’ve been weaving into garlands all afternoon.

“Sorry,” I mutter, loosening my grip on the poor balloon. “Just focused.”

“Uh-huh.” Maya sets down her own balloon creation—a remarkably accurate parrot that would make any party clown jealous—and gives me the look that’s gotten the truth out of me since we met six years ago. “Focused on what, exactly? Because you’ve been in your own world all week.”

I should have known she’d notice. Maya Navarro doesn’t miss much, especially when it comes to the people she cares about.

It’s what made her such a formidable community advocate—the woman who faced down corporate bulldozers to save Highland Community Center—and what makes her impossible to fool when something’s bothering me.

“Just work stuff,” I say, attempting to craft my yellow balloon into something resembling a fish. It looks more like a deformed banana, but at least it’s not threatening to burst anymore.

Maya and I have been friends since college, and I’ve been volunteering at Highland for ten years, handling their events and fundraisers.

When her father passed away four years ago, she stepped into his role seamlessly, keeping his vision alive through everything—budget cuts, city politics, even last year’s threat from developers who thought a community center would look better as luxury condos.

They were wrong, obviously, but watching Maya fight for this place only reinforced why I love volunteering here.

“Work stuff that has you checking your phone every five minutes and sighing like you’re in a Harlequin romance novel?”

I glance around to make sure we’re not being overheard.

The other volunteers are busy with their own balloon animals and decorations, chattering in a mix of English and Tagalog that reminds me why I love these community events.

There’s something comforting about being surrounded by people who understand the complexity of straddling two cultures, who know what it’s like to belong and not belong at the same time.

“It’s complicated,” I finally admit.

Maya’s eyebrows rise. “Complicated how? Like, difficult client complicated, or...” She pauses, studying my face with the intensity of someone who’s learned to spot emotional landmines. “Oh. Oh no. Please tell me you’re not talking about Cameron.”

The balloon I’m holding deflates with a sad little squeak. “How did you?—”

“Lianne.” Maya’s voice carries the particular combination of affection and exasperation reserved for best friends who are being deliberately obtuse.

“You’ve been weird all week. And you just got that same look you used to get whenever his name came up.

” She sets down her balloon supplies and turns to face me fully. “Cameron is your client?”

I nod miserably, abandoning any pretense of balloon artistry. “He’s the board chair. Primary investor. The person who has to approve every major decision for the anniversary gala.”

“Wow!” Maya runs a hand through her dark hair, a gesture I recognize as her processing something unexpected. “No wonder you’ve been acting like someone who’s been hit by a truck. When did you find out?”

“Last week. After Morrison Events collapsed and left several major clients scrambling, we were invited to present for Sterling Industries’ anniversary gala—only three months to pull off what should take a year to plan.

I walked into what I thought was just another high-pressure pitch meeting and there he was, sitting at the head of the conference table. ”

The memory still makes my stomach clench with a mixture of mortification and something I don’t want to examine too closely.

Maya winces sympathetically. “That must have been a shock.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” I pick up another balloon, this one purple, and begin the therapeutic process of inflating it. “But I handled it. Professional boundaries, clear expectations, no personal drama.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

The question hangs in the air between us while I consider how to answer honestly. The truth is, maintaining professional boundaries with Cameron has been like trying to hold water in my bare hands—technically possible, but requiring constant attention and ultimately futile.

“He’s... different than I expected,” I admit.

“Different how?”

I think about the way Cameron asked detailed questions about our vendor relationships, how he seemed genuinely interested in understanding the strategic thinking behind our event design choices.

The way he looked when I explained our approach to creating meaningful experiences rather than just expensive parties.

“He actually listens. Like, really listens to what I’m saying instead of just waiting for his turn to talk.” I pause, realizing how that sounds. “Not that he didn’t listen before, but... I don’t know. He seems more mature, I guess.”

Maya nods knowingly. “It’s been four years, right? A lot can change in four years.”

My phone buzzes with an incoming call. Cameron’s name flashes on the screen, and my heart does something complicated that I pretend not to notice.

“Speak of the devil,” Maya says, reading my expression correctly. “Answer it.”

I stare at the phone for another ring. “But what if?—”

“Take it,” Maya says firmly. “But remember—you’re not the same person you were four years ago. You don’t have to accept whatever terms he offers. You get to decide what you want and what you’re worth.”

I answer on the fourth ring, aiming for professional courtesy. “Lianne Peralta.”

“Miss Peralta.” Cameron’s voice is warm but formal, the same tone he used last week. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“Just volunteer work,” I say, glancing at Maya, who’s pretending not to eavesdrop while creating what appears to be a balloon elephant. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to discuss the entertainment options for the anniversary gala. I know we’d talked about a string quartet for dinner music, but I’ve been reconsidering the approach for the cocktail reception.”

I sit up straighter, surprised he’s calling about this personally rather than having his assistant handle it. “What did you have in mind?”

“Something more contemporary for the pre-dinner hour. Maybe a jazz ensemble or acoustic duo that can provide sophisticated background music without overwhelming conversation.” He pauses.

“I’ve been thinking about the guest demographic—we’ll have clients from diverse industries, different age groups.

The entertainment should appeal broadly while maintaining the upscale atmosphere. ”

Maya is watching me now, her balloon elephant forgotten as she takes in my side of the conversation.

“I can put together some options,” I say, making mental notes.

“I’d appreciate that. I’ll let you get back to your volunteer work. Have a good evening, Miss Peralta.”

“You too, Mr. Judd.”

I end the call and stare at my phone for a moment, trying to process what just happened.

“Well,” Maya says, her voice carefully neutral. “That sounded like more than vendor confirmation.”

“He wanted to discuss entertainment options for the cocktail hour.”

“Hmm.” Maya picks up her balloon elephant, examining it with knowing attention. “Executives at his level don’t personally call about background music. They have assistants for that.”

The flutter in my chest intensifies as I realize Maya’s point.

“You think he’s strategizing?” I ask.

“I think he’s being careful. The last time he moved too fast, it ended badly. This time, he’s probably trying to prove he’s changed without overwhelming you.” She pauses, her dark eyes serious. “The question is—what do you want?”

It’s the question I’ve been avoiding all week. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Four years ago, I wanted him to choose me over his family’s approval, to fight for us instead of taking the easy way out.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t need his world. I’ve built my own.” I gesture around the community center, encompassing everything it represents. “I have work I love, friends who accept me as I am, a community where I belong.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Maya’s voice is gentle but persistent. “Do you want to belong in his world? Or do you want him to belong in yours?”

I stare at the half-finished balloon in my hands. The truth is, I don’t know if I want to belong in Cameron’s world, though I’m starting to suspect I might want Cameron to belong in mine.

“I’m scared,” I admit quietly.

“I know. That’s how you know it matters.”

Around us, the community center continues its transformation into a celebration space.

Families work together to hang decorations, teenagers practice traditional dances, elderly volunteers share stories while they weave flowers into garlands.

It’s beautiful and chaotic and perfectly imperfect, full of people who’ve learned to create belonging wherever they find themselves.

“What if I let myself get drawn in again and he hurts me worse than before?” I ask.

Maya sets down her balloon creation and reaches over to squeeze my hand.

“Then you’ll survive it, just like you survived it before.

You’ll pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep building the incredible life you’ve created.

” She pauses. “But what if you don’t let yourself find out?

What if you spend the rest of your life wondering what might have happened if you’d been brave enough to see who he’s become? ”