Page 37 of Worth the Risk
Declan:
Unless you tell me your apartment number, I’m going to have to start knocking on doors. Starting with 3A.
Maya:
3F.
11
As soon asI hit send, telling him my apartment number, I immediately drop my phone like it’s on fire.
What did I just do?
I look around my apartment with fresh eyes—seeing it as Declan will see it in about two minutes. The mismatched furniture I’ve collected over the years suddenly looks shabby instead of eclectic. The stack of community center budgets on my coffee table screams “workaholic with no social life.” The photographs of Highland events covering one wall might as well be a shrine to my father’s legacy.
My heart races as I grab the budgets and shove them into a drawer. Should I change clothes? I'm still wearing the same jeans and blouse from our coffee meeting, now wrinkled from nervous fidgeting.
I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror and try to smooth down my hair, then immediately mess it up again. Too obvious.
The knock comes exactly when I expect it, but it still makes me jump. I freeze with my hand on the doorknob, suddenly paralyzed by the weight of what I'm about to do. Once I open this door, there's no going back.
My phone buzzes with Highland financial documents demanding attention. Papa's photo watches from the wall, reminding me that some things matter more than personal desires. Every rational part of my brain screams that this is a mistake.
But my hand is already turning the lock.
I open the door to find Declan standing in my hallway, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his expression uncertain. The confident CEO who commands boardrooms and negotiates million-dollar deals looks almost nervous as he meets my gaze.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi.” I step back, silently inviting him inside, my decision made.
He crosses my threshold, and suddenly my small apartment feels even smaller. His presence fills the space, making me acutely aware of how intimate this is—him in my home, surrounded by my life, no professional pretenses or neutral territory between us.
“This is where you live,” he observes, looking around with genuine curiosity.
“This is where I live.” I close the door behind him, hyperaware of the soft click of the lock. “It’s not much, but?—”
“It’s perfect.” He turns to face me, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. “It’s exactly what I imagined.”
“What did you imagine?”
“Warm. Authentic. Unpretentious.” His gaze holds mine. “Like you.”
The compliment sends heat spiraling through my chest. We’re standing barely three feet apart in my small entryway, the air between us charged with the same electricity I felt in that storage room, in the coffee shop, every time we’ve been alone together.
“Why did you come here, Declan?”
He takes a step closer. "Because I needed to tell you something."
My heart pounds against my ribs. "What?"
"That I want you." His voice is low, rough with honesty. "Not just as a collaborator, not just as Highland's director. I want you, Maya. All of you."
The admission hangs between us, impossible to take back. I could deny it, redirect the conversation back to the presentation, maintain the professional boundaries that are already in tatters.
Instead, I tell him the truth. "I want you too."
His sharp intake of breath is the only warning I get before he closes the distance between us, one hand cupping my face exactly as he did in the storage room. But this time there’s no hesitation, no questioning—just the certainty of his mouth claiming mine, hot and demanding.
