Maui was nothing like Waikiki. Both were beautiful, but Maui seemed quieter, more peaceful. I needed some of that peace. I was on edge—a concoction of nerves, excitement and doubt. I took a deep breath of the gentle breeze; it carried briny air tempered with the fragrance of tropical flowers. Divine.

“The pools must be on the other side,” said Josh, pulling me from my thoughts. “This is a nicer view than more of the resort, though, don’t you think?”

“I do.” I do? “Uh, yep, yes.” Did you know it’s possible to roll your eyes at yourself so hard, you see the inside of your own head?

“Want to go explore?”

“Absolutely,” I said, with great conviction. Anything to stop thinking.

“You know I mean ‘go sit by the pool and order cocktails’, right?” he added.

“Yep,” I replied, winking at him as I slipped past him and went inside.

“Great, and how about I bring my laptop so we can check out some day trips and excursions?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I replied. I pulled a tangerine-coloured bikini out of my luggage. “Hey, remember this from our trip?” I asked, holding it up for Josh to see.

“Remember? It’s been the sole thing keeping me going through a Chicago winter.”

I grinned. “I’ll be right back.” It wasn’t that I was being modest, but it’s far sexier to get out of a bikini than into one. Besides, I was hoping to erase the image of me, naked, squealing, and rolling off the bed onto the floor, from Josh’s mind. I didn’t want to replace it with me wrestling with some scraps of orange lycra.

“Oh, my god!” I stopped short at the door to the bathroom. It was the most luxurious and spacious bathroom I’d ever seen—including the one at James’s house. There was a long granite vanity with two sinks and drawers below, a spa bath big enough for two, a rainwater shower—also big enough for two—and a separate room for the toilet. There was even a basket filled with spa products on the vanity. I was in heaven.

“What?” called Josh.

“This bathroom is bigger than the Blue Banana,” I called back. I could hear him laugh from the other room.

“Does that make me Richard Gere?” Richard Gere, a silver fox, like James. The thought of James in his rainwater shower, water sluicing off his back, popped into my head. I shooed it away and poked my head around the corner, so I could see Josh.

Josh, Josh, Josh.

“Uh, let’s go with ‘no’ on that one. If you’re Richard Gere, that would make me Julia Roberts and a prostitute. But at least you got the reference.”

“Pretty Woman? Of course,” he laughed. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“But you were very young when it came out.” I leant against the doorframe.

“What year was that?” he asked.

“1990, I think.”

He shrugged. “I was a toddler.”

“Right.”

“Well, it’s not like you saw it in the theatre either.”