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“What about them?” I ask her hoping she’s going to finally suggest we share one of the two beds for sleeping and try to break the other one.

“Was it awkward, when you kissed me?” she asks while wincing.

“Awkward? No.” It was amazing. “I had always wondered if we would actually be…compatible together.” Or at least hoped we would be.

I hate that the jackass is still in my head, making me second-guess this. Us.

“Compatible? What do you mean by that?” Maggie asks, sounding a bit defensive. “That I’m not your type?”

“No. That’s not what I meant at all,” I assure her.

How do I explain to her that I would give anything to be with her? Anything except our friendship.

For the next few minutes, I’m so lost in thought that I barely realize we’ve reached the tip of the beach. Right before we turn around, I see movement out in the water.

At first, I think it may be someone drowning, but then I realize it’s two bodies wrapped around each other, frantically moving up and down together.

I’m about to point them out to Maggie when I notice a pile of abandoned clothes in the sand, including a pair of familiar orange flip-flops.

Grabbing Maggie’s shoulders, I quickly spin her around to head back to the resort.

“What?” she asks.

“A couple is, um, skinny dipping,” I tell her at the same time a woman cries out in either pain or pleasure. It’s followed quickly by a moan, telling me it’s most definitely pleasure.

“Who?” Maggie asks as she tries to glance over her shoulder.

“Probably an old saggy couple on their fiftieth anniversary,” I lie. “We don’t need to see all that.”

A man’s low groan joins the woman’s, making my teeth grind together.

I could’ve gone my entire life never knowing what he sounded like when he was screwing someone.

At least he’s not screwing Maggie.

Not that I am either.

Yet.

And I’m not going to let that fucker get into my head anymore.

Maggie and I would be great together. I already know it. I can learn to be what she needs me to be, to loosen up a little more and try new things in bed. Or out of it since I get the feeling my best friend is a bit of an exhibitionist.

There was this one time in college when we were at a party, a Halloween party Maggie drug me to.

She was dressed as a pirate’s wench in a short dress and knee-high black leather boots. She was sitting on her date’s lap, and he had her right then and there, with a room full of people. I got to watch her face every second as he took her.

I don’t even know if she knows that I knew exactly what they were doing.

I’ve thought about that night more than I should have, wondering what it would’ve been like to be the cocky bastard who got to be with her whenever he wanted, to be the one to make her feel so damn good.

Earlier this week I thought it might finally happen, only for the bed to break.

Since then, well, I can’t help but wonder if she’s still not over the asshole that’s currently banging someone else out in the ocean for everyone to see.

Maybe I should’ve let her catch him in the act.

But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to tell her the truth. That if he’s not over her yet, he’s well on his way trying to forget her by sleeping with someone else.