You try to step away before the rich man can say anything else.
That is your first instinct, always. Leave before someone accuses you of wanting something. Leave before kindness turns into suspicion. Leave before the gap between your wet shoes and his polished leather becomes the most important fact in the street.
But the rain is coming down too hard, and Mateo’s fingers have already closed around the sleeve of your soaked blouse.
“Don’t go,” he says, his voice cracking in that embarrassed way boys his age probably hate. “Please.”
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