“How’d it go today?” he asked.

“Okay. I’m just headed over to the testing lab.”

“Good,” he said. “Hey, did Wendy tell you about happy hour tonight?”

“No.”

He laughed. “She’s so focused, probably slipped her mind. Anyway, Monday nights we have staff happy hour at Sharky’s. This is perfect timing. You can meet your coworkers outside the office, let your hair down a little.”

Drue was instantly wary. “It’s been a really long day for me, Dad. I was gonna go check out of the motel and start moving stuff into the cottage—which I haven’t even seen yet. If it’s okay with you, I’ll take a rain check.”

“Hey,” he said earnestly. “It’s gonna be a little awkward, at first anyway. You’re the boss’s daughter, and the office manager’s stepdaughter.”

She cringed at the stepdaughter description, but kept quiet.

“If you want to get off on the right foot, get yourself over to Sharky’s tonight, six o’clock.”

“I don’t even know where that is,” Drue protested, making one last stab at bowing out. She hated everything about happy hour. Hated the mindless boozing, the forced camaraderie, the vision of over-served guys pawing every woman in sight, and shit-faced girls facedown in their own vomit by the end of the evening.

“You don’t remember Sharky’s?” Her father was incredulous. “It’s that big bar just down the beach from the cottage. You can’t miss the place. There’s a giant fiberglass shark head out in the parking lot.”

“Oh, that place.”

Sharky’s had been a Sunset Beach landmark for decades. She’d been fascinated with the place as a young teen. Music blared out of their deck-mounted speakers, from eight in the morning ’til 3:00 A.M. It was a something-for-everyone kind of swim-up beach bar, with sprawling decks, sand volleyball courts and rows of roped-off lounge chairs pointing toward the Gulf.

“Just come,” Brice said. “And that’s an order from the boss.”

As he drove away she noticed her father’s vanity license tag: ISUE-4U.

Back at the motel, Drue picked through the meager offerings in her suitcase until she found her designated “casual date” outfit, which consisted of white skinny jeans and a black halter top with large white buttons down the back. She peered into the steam-clouded bathroom mirror, trying to evaluate her appearance. She pulled her dark shoulder-length hair into a high ponytail, brushed on some mascara, and after careful consideration, added lipstick and a pair of gold palm-frond earrings.

Okay, she told herself. Not “trying too hard” but also not “currently living in a van down by the river.” She stuck her cell phone, motel key card, driver’s license and some folded bills in her back pocket and set out walking along the beach, her best flip-flops hooked over her thumb.