Page 32 of Worth the Risk
“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’llpresent 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.”
