Page 58 of The Apparent Trap

“Nope.”

“Ah, just staring at me for other reasons?”

My face heats, and I dart my head toward Simon, who’s looking at us and chuckling. Lee glances over, too, confused, and then it seems to dawn on him. He peers down at his shirt. Even though we’re at least thirty feet away from everyone else, Simon has his headphones on and is listening to everything Lee, Carmen, or Nils says.

Shit.

“You wish,” I say with a laugh that I hope is big enough to make it seem like it’s an offhanded comment.

He looks at the mic again and then up, his eyes full of mischief. I raise my eyebrows, a clear Don’t do anything.

His smirk tells me I should absolutely be afraid of whatever he’s planning. He keeps climbing up the boulder and looking back at me. He knows I want to say something, but he’s fully aware that I’m not going to now that I remember Simon is listening in. And what could I say? I could tell him to be careful—that would be a normal thing, sort of, for a producer to say to her talent. Especially if said talent was being stupidly reckless with his own well-being.

But it’s not worth what I know will come out. The things I want to say to him have too much emotion to seem casual.

He keeps going higher, the smirks getting more amused.

“You’ve made your point!” I finally shout when he’s practically at the top.

He beams and points back at his mic, an indication that he shouldn’t respond. I shake my head.

“Your funeral,” I reply, turning around. It lasts all of fifteen seconds before I turn back to check on him.

His smile is so broad from knowing I caved instantly that I can see the dimples from all the way down here. He gives me a small wave and slowly twirls around, as though he’s showing himself off just for my perusal. I want to roll my eyes, but he wouldn’t be able to see it.

I do manage to hold in the laugh, even though there’s something satisfying about seeing him finally deploy that goofiness on me again. He hasn’t really since I met him in that bar. But last night, something shifted for us. It makes me fizzy, and just that small urge motivates me to be sure to not let it go anywhere beyond this. Fizzy can explode when shaken too hard.

I turn around for a final time and walk back to Carmen. I’ve got foraged berries and my entire career to think about.

Chapter 18

I’m on autopilot the next few hours, avoiding Lee without making it look like I’m avoiding Lee. I’ve donned the uniform of “professional television producer,” and I wear it as tightly as I possibly can, every buckle snapped into place.

The rest of the content with Nils is great. I think we could possibly make a few segments out of it if the network wants us to have more.

We get our interview portion with Nils back at his farmhouse, where we can set up lighting. I’m still shocked to be in a place where it’s fully dark outside before anyone’s even had their afternoon coffee break, but I have to admit there’s something cozy about it too.

Nils keeps joking that we need to come back in July when the sun never sets. “It freaks people out way more to be standing in bright light at two in the morning than it does being dark at two in the afternoon.”

“I’d say both are equally disorienting,” Simon points out.

“Makes lighting setup in the field consistent, though,” Amir says wistfully, as though a day with constant consistent lighting is a cameraman’s dream.

When we get everything we need from Nils, we head back into the dark to make our way to a bakery where we’re going to do our next segment.

We’re greeted by Signe, the owner. She’s at least six feet tall and has her blonde hair braided up in pigtail loops, like she’s the Swedish American Girl doll Kirsten. She even has the damn apron. So much for avoiding stereotypes after having a morning with Nils.

“Welcome, welcome! I’m thrilled you are here,” she says, her accented English conveying competence and warmth at once. We all pile out and make our way inside.

Signe’s bakery is exceptionally homey. It’s like wandering into a friend’s living room that just happens to have a professional oven hidden in the back along with a baker who’s won multiple awards for her takes on classic Swedish breads and pastries.

Lee introduces himself to everyone in the staff. He repeats all the names to ensure he’s got them right. He compliments a woman named Hilde on the little scarf she’s wearing. And he lights up at the pastry case. “Kardemummabröd!” he says, looking over at the array and zoning in on the famous braided cardamom loaf.

“Ooh, and the correct name for it too!” Signe says, her smile broad.

“Well,” he replies, shaking his head. “I was in Stockholm for a day shooting some segments before coming up here, and I was schooled on how to say it properly.”

“Sure,” Hilde chimes in, “but Swedes are known for their mastery of pronouncing other languages, not necessarily Americans.”