My phone buzzes with a text from Maya:
Festival starts at 10 AM tomorrow. Hope you can still make it.
I stare at the message, thinking about site visits and board expectations and the dangerous territory I’m entering.
Then I type back:
I’ll be there.
7
The smellof adobo and lumpia fills Highland’s main hall as I weave between tables laden with Filipino delicacies, checking last-minute details for the heritage festival. Colorful banners hang from the ceiling, traditional music plays softly in the background, and three generations of families set up displays showcasing Filipino culture and history.
This is Highland at its best—vibrant, welcoming, alive with community energy.
“Maya, anak, where do you want the lechon?” Rosa calls from the kitchen doorway, gesturing toward enough roasted pork to feed half of downtown LA.
“Main table, center position,” I call back, then catch sight of Tita Sol directing teenagers in traditional dress toward the makeshift stage.
I check my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. One-fifteen PM. The festival officially started at ten this morning, and Highland’s main hall is crowded with families, community members, and half the arts district.
But no sign of Declan Pierce.
Which shouldn’t matter. This is Highland’s celebration, not some elaborate test of whether Pierce Enterprises’ CEO will show up to eat Filipino food and watch traditional dances. The festival would be perfect with or without him.
Except I keep scanning the crowd for storm-gray eyes and broad shoulders, and I hate that I’m disappointed by his absence.
“Looking for someone?” Lianne appears at my elbow with a knowing smile, balancing a plate of lumpia and wine in a tumbler.
“Making sure everything’s running smoothly,” I lie.
“Uh-huh.” Lianne follows my gaze toward the entrance. “And if Declan Pierce happens to walk through that door?”
“I will consider it proof that he takes our collaboration seriously.”
“Maya.” Lianne gives me the look she’s perfected over ten years of friendship—the one that says she sees right through whatever story I’m telling myself. “You like him.”
“I like that he’s offering Highland alternatives to demolition.”
“You like him,” she repeats. “As in, you’re attracted to the man who could save or destroy everything your father built, and you have no idea what to do about it.”
Before I can deny her completely accurate assessment, Carlo Martinez rushes over with panic written across his face.
“Maya, we have a problem. The Cariñosa demonstration needs more couples, and half our volunteers didn’t show up.”
Cariñosa—the traditional courtship dance that requires pairs to move through intricate patterns while maintaining eye contact and subtle flirtation. Beautiful, romantic, and absolutely requiring an even number of participants.
“How many couples do we have?” I ask.
“Three. We need at least five for the demonstration to look right.”
I scan the crowd for possible volunteers. Most teenagers are committed to other performances, the seniors who know Cariñosa are busy with family, and middle-aged volunteers handle food service.
“Maya could dance,” Lianne suggests. “She knows all the traditional steps.”
“I’m coordinating the festival,” I protest. “I can’t abandon my?—”
“Looking for a dance partner?”
