Unlike the previous mornings, Carol awoke early the next day. Or earlyish, considering it was already five past ten. Beside her, Ricardo slept, his kissable lips slack, his cheeks sporting two days of stubble. She brushed her fingers through his hair, but he didn’t wake, so she brushed her lips over his. When he still didn’t stir, she shimmied out of bed, grabbed black slacks, a green turtleneck, matching underwear, and headed to the bathroom.
She emerged an hour later, dressed, subtle make-up on, hair brushed and dry. Ricardo still slept—and in the same position. So, she grabbed her phone, her coat, and stepped out to have breakfast.
She passed other guests, discreet staff going about morning business, and took a seat by the glass wall in the eatery. It was the same view from her bedroo
