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“And how exactly should I speak to my own daughter?”

“Like she’s someone you respect.”

I feel Clara’s eyes, but I keep mine on him. Steady, not challenging. Open but firm. But again, fuck him.

“You seem very comfortable giving advice to a stranger.”

“I make it a rule not to stick my nose in other people’s business, but that doesn’t mean I’m not comfortable pointing out when someone deserves better.”

The music swells behind us, the band sliding into another song while the air between us feels sharp enough to cut.

“Well.” He lifts his glass slowly, his gaze cool. “We’ll see how long that confidence lasts.”

“Oh, it’ll last. Sir,” I add a little belatedly.

“We’ll see.” His smirk is kind of evil. But I’ll say it again, fuck him.

“Ah, Clara.”

“Hello, Uncle Drum.”

A man around her dad’s age suddenly lunges in to kiss my girl’s cheek. “Looking gorgeous, as always. And who do we have here?” He shoots a congenial smile my way.

“This is Mariam’s son,” her dad puts in before she can speak. “You remember Mariam. Our maid.”

I guess I should’ve seen that one coming.

“Ah, yes. Lovely lady,” the man answers. “She served a delicious lobster Cobb for lunch on the chef’s day off.”

Despite his aw-shucks tone, there’s something about this guy I don’t like. But he needn’t be embarrassed on my behalf.

“You should try her fattoush,” I say, deciding to burn the fuck out of this bridge. It’s a shame, but it’s clear I’ll never be enough for Daddy’s girl. At least, in his opinion. “Better yet, ask her to make baba ghanoush. Maybe a little mezze.” As if there was such a thing as little when my mom gets to cooking. Yes, Mr. Forbes, I’m sorry to say, not only is your daughter into the maid’s son but, shock horror, he has a little Lebanese in him. By default, you know what that means, don’t you . . .

“Anyone can rustle up a salad,” her father drawls.

“Can they, Daddy? I doubt you could even find the kitchen.” Clara’s tone is bright. Like a knife glistening in the sunshine.

“I don’t need to, darling. That’s why we have help.”

I can take it. I even smile back—smile like the man fucking his daughter. So my mother cleans for him. So what? She’s worth ten of any of these assholes. Just like Clara is.

“Is your mother working this evening?”

“No, sir.” Thank fuck. “She’ll be back tomorrow, I believe.” Cleaning up after your entitled ass.

“Maybe I can get her to make me some baba ghanoush,” Uncle Drum interjects. “The last time I had some was in Beirut in the nineties.”

He was probably doing blow off a belly dancer’s ass crack. Something about him gives me that impression.

“You’re staying over, Uncle Drum?” Clara and her diversion. But what the fuck kind of name is Drum?

“Yes. Going to hit the old . . .” He makes a motion like the swing of a club. Golf, not seals. Though with these people, you never can tell. “And what do you do, Troy?”

“I’m studying finance and economics at the University of Connecticut.”

“Troy is brilliant,” Clara puts in quickly. “He’s in the top two percent of his class.”

“Impressive,” the man named after a musical instrument says. “I, myself, had a terrible time at college. I barely made it through.”