“Table for Emily Carlton,” I tell the woman at the front of the trendy restaurant in LA. I follow her back to a table tucked into the corner. “You requested something with privacy. How’s this?” she asks. “Perfect. Thank you.” I sit facing the door and watch people drift in. The full weight of my attention is on this meeting. I don’t even know this woman, but I want to like her—and I want her to like me. I smooth the skirt of my simple black dress and wonder if I should’ve worn my hair up instead of down. The nerves didn’t hit me when I confirmed the meeting time,...