I heard the bathroom door creak open just as I placed the glass of horchata on María José's nightstand. I didn't move. I didn't speak.
The scent hit me first. Her warm jasmine soap with the faintest trace of vanilla body lotion she liked to rub across her shoulders. I took a deep nasal intake as a small cloud of steam followed her out.
She stepped into the room barefoot and humming, towel knotted loosely around her chest, the hem teasing the curve of her thighs. Water trickled down her calves, kissed her ankles. Her swollen belly that was beautiful and round, jutted out gently from the folds of terry cloth, like a crown she didn't know she wore.
And gods — she didn't see me yet, which was a good thing, because that meant I could stare all I wanted. These days, I have to hide my desires to avoid appearing suspicious.
