When the alarm on Ethan’s phone—changed to sound like an old-fashioned school bell—rang, signaling the end of their time together, she found herself reluctant to end the night.

“Okay, this week we are focusing on putting ourselves out there both emotionally and also literally,” she said as a close to the session. “We’re doing a little experiment. I want you to arrange for at least one first date before we meet again. Two if you’re feeling well-rested.” She waved away a few groans.

“Ask out your butcher. He looks great out of that bloody smock. Take him for coffee or a cocktail. Something you can cap at an hour if need be. None of us are sitting out the unofficial lab portion of this course, okay?”

Naomi gathered her things as people started heading for the exit. If she was quick enough, she might get out of there before Ethan and his blue eyes decided to ask her about her day. His consistent, genuine concern for her was hard to shake. A woman could get used to that sort of treatment, if she didn’t watch herself.

When they’d arrived in the parking lot at the same time earlier that evening, he’d noticed one of her tires was low and gotten down on his knees, in fucking slacks, to inspect it. The man had zero regard for his clothing.

She shoved her phone into her bag and tried to make a break for the door. If she was lucky, she and her wimpy tire would make it out of there in one piece.

“Ms. Grant?” A blonde Naomi recognized from the first lecture stopped in front of her. She wore a green dress under her jean jacket and the same Feminist Killjoy pin. At close range, Naomi noticed she had pale pink streaks running through her highlights. She shivered as goose bumps broke out on her arms. This blond woman reminded her of someone, though she couldn’t decide who.

“Hey.” Ethan made his way toward them. Shit. “You can call me Naomi. What’s your name?”

“Molly.” She shifted her purse higher on her shoulder. “Barnett.”

“Nice to meet you, Molly.” Naomi tried to commit the name to memory. Maybe she could order name tags off Amazon. Actually, she was sure Clara probably had some on hand at the office and was breathlessly waiting for the chance to pull them out.

“What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to say thanks.” Molly tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s refreshing to hear someone talk about dating like you do. Like it’s not a nightmare to be endured, but like it could be fun.”

“I’m a big advocate of having as much fun as possible,” Naomi said as Ethan joined them at the front of the room.

“Hi there.” He grinned at them both.

“Oh. Hi, Rabbi Cohen.” Molly’s cheeks tinted to match her rosy hair.

Naomi could hardly blame her. He had a pleased glow about him at the moment that made Naomi want to suck the goodness right out of him.

“Hey. Molly, right?” He pushed his hair off his face. “You’re president of the Hillel association at UCLA?”

“That’s right.”

“Are you enjoying the course?” Ethan gave Naomi a little nod. “I’m learning a lot myself.”

Fuck, she was going to have to rush the door.

“I am,” Molly said, apparently less affected by his extremely inconvenient good looks. “But . . . I’ve got kind of a problem, and I was speaking to a few of the other participants here, and they said the same thing. It’s just . . . well, you said to try going out on a first date this week, but . . . where do you meet people? To date, I mean. I basically go from work to the gym to the grocery store. And I have to tell you, there are not as many eligible hotties shopping for produce as romantic comedies led me to believe.”

Naomi frowned. She remembered being Molly’s age, which she estimated as around twenty-three, but she’d been performing at that point. Even before she moved in with Josh, she’d mostly dated her co-stars. But she probably shouldn’t mention looking for eligible partners at work. That kind of pairing had a tendency to implode, one way or another.

“You don’t go to parties or anything?”

“Not really,” Molly said. “I find the whole loud-music, tons-of-people thing kind of exhausting.”

“Well, what about all the apps or whatever?” Naomi didn’t have much personal experience with them outside of her friends reporting random people for using her pictures to catfish, but she knew they were pretty ubiquitous.

“I do have some of the apps, but it’s rough out there. I’m a Minnesota eight, which makes me like a solid five in L.A.”

“No way,” Naomi said, protesting in earnest. “You’re gorgeous.” In a weirdly familiar way.

Molly ducked her head. “All the same, I think I’d do better if I could meet people in person. You know, show off my sparkling personality,” she said with a sarcastic hair flip.

Suddenly Naomi knew who Molly reminded her of.

Hannah Sturm. Her younger self. Before she’d tasted betrayal. Before she’d remade herself into something gleaming and sharp. Back when wanting to belong, wanting to be loved, hadn’t felt like a capital crime.

Ethan leaned forward. He had the same wide-eyed eagerness he’d worn at the teaching conference. His I’ve got an idea face, Naomi supposed.

“Are you saying you’d like a more intimate environment to meet eligible partners?”