Page 11 of The Apparent Trap

But there’re always a few stories that the morning team takes on—the ones less to do with the actual sports and more to do with the host country.

Next year’s Winter Olympics are taking place at venues across Sweden, and the team was already planning to pretape some stories in Stockholm. But I pitched that we should also spend time pretaping a few segments about northern Sweden as well, where weather, snow, and climate change are front-and-center topics, perfect for Carmen’s meteorology background.

I’ve been coordinating with potential interview subjects and was just waiting for approval before I booked everything from a reindeer herder to ice fishers to geologists to architects. And a friend on the budgets team told me there was extra money from a sponsorship we’d already gotten from the Swedish tourism board, so I was able to add that point in as well.

Carmen obviously loved the idea, even if she seemed a little skeptical I could pull it off. And the email just came in that I have.

So now I get the distinct joy of walking over and telling her I kicked ass on both of our behalfs.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lee getting rolled into the other side of the studio for whatever he’s about to cook. True to my word, Carmen hasn’t had to deal with any of his segments.

Darren is taking this one again, but Georgia still has to stand with them and try the food. I’m a little giggly watching her continue to give Lee the side-eye—he must think she has an inexplicable vendetta against him at this point.

I hate the nagging knowledge that Lee has bigger concerns than what Georgia thinks of him. He doesn’t even seem to notice her—instead, he’s watching Carmen, even though she’s on the other side of the studio and oblivious. I shouldn’t care about either of them, but I can’t help but detect his melancholy.

Maybe I worked so hard to be likable that I forgot to actually be likable, he’d said. It’s impossible not to see that every time he looks over at Carmen.

I’m unable to stop myself from wondering whether he’s made any progress in their relationship.

But I shove the thought out of my mind. Carmen hasn’t brought him up since our initial conversation, and it’s none of my business. Lee Morgan is none of my business.

I get to Carmen and hand her the notecards with reminders of her topics for the start of the nine o’clock hour.

“Thanks,” she says without looking up.

“And guess what else I just found out?”

“What?” she asks, that finally getting her attention.

“We’re going to Sweden! Early December, they’re going to let us do it.”

Her eyes widen. “Wow. That’s . . . that’s going to be amazing,” she replies, surprised but clearly glad.

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘Thanks, Ezzie. I know you’ve been working so hard to make this happen for me.’”

She smirks, always more comfortable with sparring than actual emotions. “Thanks, Ezzie,” she parrots back, a little sarcasm lining her voice. “I know you’ve been working so hard to make this happen for me. And you.” She quirks an eyebrow, never missing a beat.

“You’re so welcome,” I say with a sly smile.

“And Ezzie?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to become Olympics-indispensable,” she replies, determination now lining her expression.

“Absolutely.” I give her a quick nod, knowing we’re both ready for this opportunity. “Look over these notecards, yeah?” She gives me a salute, like maybe I actually have something to offer, and takes the cards from my hands to read them. We still have three minutes until the commercials are over, so I wait next to her in case she has any other questions.

I look around the studio, and my eyes accidentally land back on Lee. He’s also waiting for the commercial break to end so his segment can begin. But instead of watching Carmen anymore or doing anything to get ready, he’s now just standing and chatting with Ellen, one of the food stylists. He’s leaning against the counter, as though it’s natural to be that casual mere minutes before millions of people can see you.

“No, you’ve got vanilla totally wrong,” I hear him tell her. He wears a small grin, those lethal dimples only partially deployed, like he knows he doesn’t even need to exert their full power.

“Oh please,” she says, swatting him with a dish towel. “It’s bland and beige.”

He’s twirling a vanilla bean around his fingers, like it’s a fidget spinner. But then he holds it up in front of her. “Milk is bland and beige—vanilla is deep and dark! It’s speckled!”

She rolls her eyes with amusement, clearly egging him on, and I hate the way the ease of that eye roll spins its way through me. She’s flirtable.

He places the bean flat on the counter, grabs a knife, then with a flick slices it open. He scrapes the knife down the center, then takes her hand and rubs the pulpy, fragrant paste across her palm.