Page 24 of Worth the Risk
“That was...” I struggle to find words that describe what just happened without acknowledging how affected I am.
“Intense,” he finishes quietly. “I wasn’t expecting it to feel so...”
“Personal?”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushes across my knuckles before he releases my hand. “Personal.”
Before I can respond, Rosa appears with plates of food, and suddenly we’re swept into the festival’s social current—introduced to community members, offered samples of every dish, included in conversations about Filipino traditions and LA’s changing neighborhoods.
Declan handles it with surprising grace. He listens when elderly relatives share immigration stories, asks thoughtful questions about traditional recipes, and makes everyone feel like he’s genuinely interested in their perspectives.
“Your boyfriend is very nice,” Tita Sol tells me as we watch Declan attempt to eat lumpia without dripping sauce on his shirt.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I correct automatically.
“Hmm.” Tita Sol’s smile is knowing. “Does he know that?”
I follow her gaze to where Declan is helping Carlo’s younger sister reach the dessert table, lifting her easily so she can choose between leche flan and halo-halo. The gesture appears casual, unconscious, natural.
“He’s good with people,” I observe.
“He’s good with you,” Tita Sol corrects. “I watched that dance, Maya. That man wasn’t performing for the crowd.”
Before I can ask what she means, Lianne appears with another glass of wine and a mischievous expression.
“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 Cariñosa. 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 Cariñosa.”
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.
