Page 43 of Worth the Risk
My phone buzzes with a text from Maya?—
Maya:
Thank you for last night. For everything. I’m working on those financial projections for the board presentation. This could actually work.
The optimism in her message makes my chest ache. She believes in this collaboration. She believes the board will listen to reason, that her research and passion can overcome decades of Pierce Enterprises’ profit-first mentality.
She believes in me.
I think about Harrison’s warning, about maintaining professional boundaries. About the board’s impatience and their willingness to steamroll over Highland if this collaboration doesn’t produce results quickly.
Another text arrives?—
Maya:
Question about the historic tax credit calculations—can we set up a call later? I want to make sure the numbers are bulletproof.
Bulletproof. As if numbers and logic could protect Highland from five board members who see community centers as obstacles to quarterly profits.
I draft three different responses, deleting each one.
What am I supposed to tell her? That Harrison suspects our relationship? That the board is looking for any excuse to end this collaboration? That even with perfect financial projections, Highland’s chances are maybe thirty percent at best?
That I spent the night in her bed while knowing I might have to choose between her and everything I’ve built my life around?
Elliot’s words echo in my mind—Show her who you really are. But what if who I really am is someone who disappoints the people he cares about? What if the corporate shark Maya initially saw is the truest version of myself?
My father never would have gotten emotionally involved with someone on the opposite side of a business deal. Maxwell Pierce compartmentalized everything—personal feelings never interfered with strategic decisions. That’s how he built Pierce Enterprises into a company that matters.
I finally text back?—
Declan:
Let’s discuss tonight. Dinner?
Her response comes immediately.
Maya:
My place? I’ll cook. Fair warning—it won’t be as fancy as whatever you’re used to.
I stare at her message, thinking about her small apartment with its mismatched furniture and community center photos covering the walls. The warmth and authenticity of a space that tells the story of who she is.
Declan:
Actually, let me cook for you. My place.
A long pause. Then?—
Maya:
Are you sure? That feels like crossing another line.
Declan:
We crossed all the lines last night. Besides, I make a decent pasta, and you’ve been feeding me Highland’s community meals for weeks. It’s my turn.
Maya:
