“Because I had to get showered and dressed. Now you’ve got to get out of here right now.”

His eyes were bloodshot and his hair tousled and he looked as thoroughly hungover as Drue still felt. “Okay, okay, I’m going.” He found his briefs on the floor and put them on.

Of course, she thought, they were Ralph Lauren underpants.

“Shit.” He looked up at her. “I can’t go to work like this.” He held up the shirt and shorts he’d worn the previous night. “Everybody will know I didn’t go home last night. And I don’t even have my car here. I took Lyft last night.”

She was digging around in the tiny closet for a pair of shoes, any pair of shoes. Finally she found a pair of Gap navy espadrilles she hadn’t worn in years.

“So?”

He pulled on his shorts. “So, everybody saw me leaving Sharky’s with you last night. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out I must have spent the night with you.”

She sank down onto the bed. “Oh God.”

He turned puppy dog eyes toward her. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

“Shut up,” she snapped, shoving her feet into the shoes, which were, predictably, too tight.

“Look, you’re right. It was a bad idea. The worst idea ever.” She narrowed her eyes. “So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m leaving here right now to go to work. You’re leaving too. Call in sick or dead or whatever you want. But if you ever, ever breathe a word about last night to anybody, I will hurt you. Do you understand?”

“It’s not my proudest moment either, you know,” he said. He reached into his pocket and found his phone and billfold. “Look. Can you at least give me a ride up to Gulf Boulevard? It’ll be easier to call a Lyft from there.”

“Oh hell no,” she said. “Brice and Wendy live three miles down the beach. What if they’re passing by on the way to work and see me dropping you off? No way. You can either call for a ride from here or walk up there on your own.”

“Okay,” he said finally. “I’m going.”

“Yes. You are.” She poked him in the chest for emphasis. “And remember. This never happened. And it will never happen again.”

Drue sat very still in the driver’s seat of the Bronco. “Please, OJ,” she whispered. “Please in the name of all that’s holy, please start.”

She turned the key in the ignition and gently pumped the accelerator. “Please start. Please start. Please start.”

The motor caught! She gave it a little more gas, nodding in encouragement. “Attaway, baby. Attaway.”