Miguel should have gotten back in his truck.
He should have driven away.
He should have chosen the interview.
Instead, he walked toward her.
The woman was yanking at her shoe with both hands, panic rising in her movements.
“No, no, no… seriously?” she snapped, more to the storm than to anyone else.
Her coat was elegant even drenched. Her hair, dark and expensive-looking, stuck to her cheekbones in wet strands. Her mascara had smudged at the corners of her eyes, and her breathing came fast, uneven, sharp with frustration.
Miguel stepped into the floodwater until it reached his ankles.
“You keep pulling like that, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” he called over the rain.
She spun around, startled, eyes narrowing the second she saw him.
He knew what she saw.
A tall man in a faded plaid shirt, muddy boots, rough hands, old truck, old cap.
Nothing polished. Nothing impressive.
“I’ve got it,” she said, trying to sound in control.
Miguel glanced at the heel still trapped in the mud.
“No, you don’t.”
