Page 30 of The Apparent Trap

But now I have a different problem.

Lee is standing at the counter, his knife speeding across a cutting board, his white t-shirt rolled up at the sleeves to reveal tattoos I’ve never seen (and on a bicep I also hadn’t seen). Behind him, the meal is simmering under control—turkey in the oven smelling like crisping skin, pots with tops on them waiting patiently. Next to him is a salad bowl that I’m guessing goes with whatever he’s chopping. It’s hot-man-competency porn. This entire scenario is under control, and he just looks like a casual Levi’s ad in the middle of it.

Until he notices me staring. “Hey,” he says, his smirk popping his dimples.

“Uh, hi,” I reply, shoving the bottle of wine I brought in his direction. “Was getting my dad to climb four flights of stairs part of your dastardly plan?”

“Oh, I didn’t even think of that,” he says, and I try to ignore the implications of someone who doesn’t even register that much daily cardio. “Does this mean he arrived winded and Carmen saw that he can’t handle some stairs?”

I sit down at one of the barstools that face the counter. “Sadly, no,” I reply. “He definitely commented on it coming up, but he didn’t mention it to her once we walked in the door. He’s unfortunately in really good shape for his age.”

“Well, I want that to annoy me, but I guess the magnanimous response would be it’s good that you have a dad who’s in shape.”

I grimace. “Yeah, I don’t love how my mind is basically taunting me into wanting my dad in worse health so we can scare off his young girlfriend.”

“No,” he brushes off. “Don’t go down that road.”

I nod but need to change the subject. “This all looks great,” I say, gesturing to the food.

If I thought the rolled-up sleeves were a problem, that’s got nothing on what happens to Lee’s expression when I compliment his food. You’d think I told him it was the best thing I’ve ever seen.

“Thanks,” he says. “I got a little too into it today, I think.”

“You’re not exhausted from cooking too much in your work life?”

His mouth turns down skeptically. “I don’t really do as much cooking day-to-day as I used to. The restaurants now are all run by their own chefs de cuisine, and I check in a few times a week, but they don’t need me for anything. I’m filming a lot for various shows, but that’s all competitions and judging and very little actual cooking if you’re not a contestant.”

“Do you miss it?”

“I don’t miss the financial struggle of being a line cook,” he says with a sigh. “But I don’t know, there’s something about getting in the zone on the line. You know you need to execute and put one foot in front of the other—there’s clarity that comes with being singularly focused on the task at hand. I feel like that brings out the best in me. On sets there’s so much downtime, and I get fidgety.”

I think back to my feelings about working on the parade broadcast that morning, and how much I relished that part too.

But before either of us can delve into more, Carmen and my dad walk in the room and join me at the counter.

“Hey, Mark, nice to see you,” Lee says and holds his hand out. It’s almost humorous how well intentioned and oblivious my dad is. He’s shaking Lee’s hand without seeming bothered at all by any of it. Although I guess there’s less to be grossed out by when you’re the one making the choice to have a girlfriend whose dad is more than a decade younger than you.

But maybe I don’t know my dad as well as I think and he has spent a lot of time considering that fact. Maybe he just hasn’t expressed it to me. After all, you’d never know from the look on Lee’s face that he probably would rather take my dad’s hand and drag him forcefully out of the building.

Instead, Lee hands my dad the bottle of wine and a corkscrew. “Could you open this up?”

“Of course,” he says enthusiastically.

But the sentiment is short-lived as my dad struggles a little bit with the bottle. I look over at Lee and see he’s watching Carmen. I know my beans plan was pathetic, but this is kind of on the same level. Like, okay, it takes some strength and finesse to open a wine bottle. But my dad isn’t in his eighties—as discussed mere moments ago, he’s in pretty good shape. So of course he eventually pulls the cork out just fine.

Lee pours us all a glass and then holds his up. “Cheers,” he says. “Thank you for coming over. It’s really special to get to do this.”

I see Carmen’s expression soften toward Lee at the sentiment. I’ve spent the afternoon annoyed that Lee tricked me into a meal under false pretenses, but I haven’t given much thought for how this night would’ve gone for them otherwise. They’re probably both shaken up at having a first holiday together.

My dad’s smile at Carmen is knowing. He clearly has much better insight into this dynamic, and he’s probably thinking how glad he is to be her buffer. It occurs to me that I’m once again the outsider.

“Thanks so much for having us,” my dad replies, clinking his glass with both of them. “It’s such an unexpected treat to get to be with Carmen today.”

I know my dad doesn’t mean anything by it, and he’s probably just trying to smooth over whatever the emotion in Carmen’s expression is doing to him . . . but it presses the already-present bruise all the same.

And I don’t miss how Lee’s eyes immediately flick over to me.

“Well, I can’t promise my company will be better than a movie,” he says, “but I’m hoping the food is better than takeout!”