We walk toward the coffee shop door together, maintaining careful distance but hyperaware of each other’s proximity. At the exit, Declan pauses.
“Good luck with the presentation preparation. If you need anything—research support, additional documentation, someone to review your talking points—let me know.”
“I will.” I hesitate, then add, “Declan? What you said about not being able to stop thinking about me?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s mutual.”
His sharp intake of breath is the only sign that my admission affects him. “Good to know.”
“Good night, Declan.”
“Good night, Maya.”
I walk to my car while he heads in the opposite direction, but I can feel his gaze on me until I’m out of sight. Only when I’m driving home do I allow myself to acknowledge how much I wanted him to ask if he could see me tonight, how much I wanted to give him my apartment number instead of just the building name.
How much I wanted to stop pretending that what’s developing between us can wait until Highland’s future is decided.
But Highland comes first. Highland has to come first.
Even when my heart is starting to suggest that some things might be worth the risk of complicating everything.
10
My phone buzzesas I’m leaving the coffee shop, Maya’s scent still lingering on my clothes from when she brushed past me at the door. The memory of her hand in mine, the way her pulse quickened when I traced her knuckles, has my body humming with an energy I can’t shake.
Harrison’s name flashes on the screen.
Can we meet? Off the record. There are things we need to discuss about your... approach to the Highland situation.
I stare at the message, feeling the familiar weight of corporate expectation settling on my shoulders like an expensive suit that’s just a size too small. Harrison Gordon—my father’s right-hand man, the keeper of Pierce Enterprises’ legacy, the voice of shareholder responsibility.
The man who’s been watching my every move since I took over the company three years ago.
Declan:
When and where?
Harrison:
My club. One hour. Private dining room.
Of course. The California Club, where deals are made over aged whiskey and handshake agreements that reshape downtown LA. Where my father conducted business for thirty years, where tradition matters more than innovation.
Where Declan Pierce the CEO belongs, not Declan Pierce the man who’s falling for a community organizer with fire in her eyes and petition papers in her hands.
Right now, I can only be one of those men—the one who can face Harrison and tell him exactly what he wants to hear.
Harrison is waiting when I arrive, seated at a corner table with two glasses of Macallan 18 already poured. He’s dressed in his usual uniform—navy suit, Pierce Enterprises cufflinks, the kind of understated wealth that whispers rather than shouts.
“Declan.” He stands to shake my hand, his grip firm and measured. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”
“Of course.” I settle into the opposite chair, noting how he’s chosen a table where we can’t be overheard. “You said this was off the record?”
“Indeed.” Harrison takes a sip of his whiskey, studying me over the rim of his glass. “I wanted to speak with you not asPierce Enterprises’ board member, but as someone who worked alongside your father for fifteen years. Someone who cares about your success.”
The words should be reassuring. Instead, they feel like the opening move in a chess game I’m already losing.
