Page 1 of The Apparent Trap

Chapter 1

I love being early.

Tonight, at this bar, it means I can pick the comfiest chair. I can order a drink with seven maraschino cherries and eat them all before anyone I know sees me. I can people watch in peace.

I get a buzz from being out but not obligated, no expectations of the tit for tat of conversation.

The only thing that would make tonight better is if I wasn’t trussed up like a turkey on Thanksgiving. My dad suggested we “get gussied” for his award ceremony today because he gets a kick out of showing up overdressed for boring academic functions, and who am I to deny him his amusement?

We egged each other on—I said an enthusiastic yes to his top hat; he said I had to wear the sparkly pink boots I bought with him at a conference in Texas. I reminded him that top hats pair perfectly with cravats. He said only if I wore a dress that was extra twirly. So we went in our ridiculous outfits, I got to cheer him on, and we even snuck out half an hour earlier than I needed to for my drinks meeting.

So now, with a bit of time on my hands, I’m rewarded with a bartender plopping a drink down with all my extra cherries while I amusedly watch an awkward couple on what must be a first date (she’s subtly eyeing exits; he spits a little as he talks).

But I probably shouldn’t assume. If someone were watching me, they’d have me pegged all wrong tonight, considering externally I’m a completely different version of my normal self—hair blown out into bouncy curls, contacts in, skirt voluminous. I hope when Carmen arrives she doesn’t meet me and think this is how her producer normally looks, because tomorrow I’m going to happily Clark Kent back into my glasses and the oversize cardigan I live in now that autumn has arrived.

My phone rings, and I look down to see Georgia’s deliberately cross-eyed photo beaming back at me. She looks gorgeous even when she’s trying to look demented. Maybe that’s why she can take photos like that.

“You’re seeing me in less than twelve hours,” I say when I pick up.

“I wanted to wish you good luck!” Georgia’s voice is a warm summer breeze. It’s the Swoosh on a pair of Nikes that makes her beautiful package even more instantly recognizable to millions of Americans every morning when she tells them the news.

“I’m meeting a new work colleague, not going on a playdate.”

“Yeah, but if you’re going to be her producer every day, you want it to go well.”

The reminder makes my stomach swoop. “It’ll be fine,” I say. “She seems great. The execs are excited. And if it’s terrible, she’s out in four months, anyway. Besides, I can always win over meteorologists.”

“You can win over anyone.”

I was Georgia’s producer first, until she became the lead coanchor of the show last year. We clicked, despite the appearance of being comically opposite—tall, blonde, and perky Georgia Cole seems nothing like small, brunette, riot-of-curls Ezzie Halevi. But the packaging is misleading, like a cardboard box and a fancy gift bag still both containing the same nerdy, mildly goofy present. A hundred “Should we watch The West Wing or 30 Rock tonight?” conversations later, and she’s the first person I text about any and all hyperfixations (today’s was a spreadsheet ranking of all the upcoming Broadway shows we should plan to see and what month we should go).

There is an unspoken hierarchy to being best friends with the visual leader of everyone’s jobs. Being the producer means you’re the side character, but that suits me perfectly—all the benefits, none of the pressure. It also means, though, that Georgia has a blind spot when it comes to me, assuming I move through the world the way she does. This meeting is casual, but it’s important for me to set the tone. They’re bringing an additional face onto the show, and Carmen’s success is more important than mine. While I have to steer her, I’m also the more expendable one.

But there’s no point getting into that with Georgia.

“I appreciate the confidence,” I say finally. “Thanks for checking in. I’ll obviously text you when it’s done for the full debrief, even though we should both be going to bed.”

“Damn straight,” she says with a laugh. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hang up with a smile and grab another cherry from the glass.

“Hi,” says a voice, startling me enough that I swallow the cherry with the stem still attached. Shit. I cough, trying to force it down, but then I turn around and am even more surprised.

Lee Morgan is standing in front of me, his friendly smile bracketed by those unmissable parentheses dimples. That smile, under carefully curated two-day scruff, makes him lethal on television. But the camera misses the hint of mischief that’s always on his face in person, and for some reason, right now, for the first time, it’s aimed straight at me.

“Hi?” I force out a reply.

“Wow, it’s so funny you’re wearing those boots,” he says, apropos of nothing. “Because I almost wore them, and then we would’ve matched.”

“I’m sorry?”

He sidles onto the stool next to mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world, all six foot something of his frame. He’s clad in the softest looking dark t-shirt with equally dark slacks, something a man who’s edged into his forties shouldn’t be able to pull off, but damn, he really is. And I’m confused. I would be shocked if he knew who I am. He does a weekly cooking segment for The Wake Up Show, but I don’t produce food, so I’ve only met him in passing, and the show employs a few hundred people.

“It was a joke,” he says wryly. “I was complimenting your boots.”

I look down and am reminded I’m wearing sparkly pink footwear. “Why?” I ask, and his smile dips into surprise. I’m chronically incapable of tempering my mouth, so I’m used to this kind of reaction.