I had picked it because it was the only thing that allowed me to breathe. All my other cocktail dresses had made me feel constricted and claustrophobic. Far too tight, too confining.
“It’s Zuhair Murad,” I tell him. Mostly because I don’t know what else to say.
“I don’t give a f**k what it is,” he snaps. His smile falters for a split second before it’s back in place again. “It makes you look like a forty-year old spinster.”
He stands there for a moment glowering, like he can’t decide which aspect of my appearance to insult next.
Before he can, someone approaches.
Papa’s demeanor shifts at once. Just like that, he’s back to being the consummate host. The perfect gentleman.
“Ah, Juan! Allow me to introduce you to my daughter, Esme.”
I recognize the man instantly.
Juan Garcia. A local
