Molly nodded. “Yeah, exactly. Like, should I sign up for woodworking classes or take up bartending or something?”

Ethan rubbed his hand through his beard. “Well, the synagogue could certainly organize some type of singles mixer.”

“Would Naomi be in charge?” For the first time, Molly looked unsure. “No offense, Rabbi Cohen. I just feel like she’d make it cool.”

Naomi folded her lips together. She really didn’t have the extra time to add another synagogue-sponsored event to her social roster. Besides, spending time with Ethan made her goofy and giggly in a way that she didn’t trust. It was too much like crushes she’d gotten before she knew what they could cost.

At the same time, she appreciated Molly’s vote of confidence. She tried to think of a way to let the girl down gently, but Ethan was already there, smoothing things over, making them easy.

“I’m not sure we could impose any further on Naomi’s time. But hey, I promise that I will try to make it cool. Give me a chance?”

Naomi and Molly both looked at the elbow patches on his sweater and frowned.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ve got ideas.”

The weak smile he wore made Naomi want to spend hours corrupting him. No. Days.

“Might as well let him try,” she told Molly. “It can’t be that bad.”

Chapter Ten

ETHAN COHEN WAS an embarrassment to his people. Matchmakers had held an honorable position in the Jewish community since the earliest days of their faith. Some of the most illustrious rabbis had once made their living as shadchonim. Ethan was literally supposed to be doing “God’s work” right now. Instead he was avoiding his imminent failure by drinking a beer.

Any way you sliced it, his first singles mixer was a spectacular dud. Unfortunately, he had no one to blame but himself.

The bar he’d selected, a new pseudo-dive (the furniture looked like something from his grandparents’ garage, but cocktails cost twelve dollars), should have provided at least an adequate backdrop for this exercise. Google reviews had labeled the place “trendy, in the sense that they have tried very hard to look like they’re not trying at all.”

Despite the ambiance, turnout was . . . less than desirable. Only five people had shown up. Including Morey, who at least had on a spectacular pair of suspenders. Ethan gave him a blithe smile across the room and tried not to throw up.

Okay, so he should have asked for Clara’s help with recruitment. Or at least asked Naomi to ask Clara for her help. But his pride wouldn’t let him accept any more of their generosity.

Lots of synagogues hosted singles meetups. There was no reason his should flop like this. The board had hired him because, in theory, he knew how to attract young people—due to the fact that he was a young person himself.

The few people who’d shown up from the lectures attempted stilted conversation in the corner, drinks sweating in their hands as they waited for the event that he’d told them was running “just a little bit behind.”

He swallowed his guilt along with another bitter sip of lager.

After Molly’s request at the second lecture, he’d hastily thrown together some plans for Wednesday night. Speed dating had seemed like a brilliant idea. Easy. Structured. Low stakes. But nothing about tonight was going according to plan.

With the current number of participants, he’d have to extend the planned five-minute blocks with each single into half an hour each. Also, he currently had an odd number of people signed up to take part.

The writing was on the wall. He would have to call the whole thing off.

Ethan took a healthy swig for courage and pushed himself off the bar stool he’d chosen as his designated sulking station. Then the last person he expected to see walked into the room. He stood very still as Naomi Grant surveyed the sorry scene in front of her. When her eyes caught on his, he didn’t pause to examine whether his face heated out of pleasure, embarrassment, or both.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight,” he told her when she made her way over. Now that he’d had a few moments to drink in the sight of her, Ethan decided he’d prefer she hadn’t arrived to witness his humiliation.

Naomi gestured to the empty bar. “What’s going on? Molly sent me an email saying the mixer started at seven.”

He experienced a flash of annoyance that Molly had doubted his event-planning skills enough to slip Naomi a warning, but since she’d obviously been right, he let it go almost as quickly as it had come.

“Things are off to a bit of a slow start. This was supposed to be speed dating, but I don’t have enough people to make pairs.” He spoke without opening his mouth much, trying not to raise the alarm with the few stragglers they had managed to attract.

“Oh. Well . . .” She checked the anxious attendees over her shoulder. “I’ll just sit in.” Naomi smiled at him in a way that was surely lethal in large doses.

“You’ll . . . oh.” Ethan fought to control the way his mouth wanted to slip into an O. “You’re going to . . .”

The idea of her and Morey making small talk had short-circuited his brain.

“Are you all right?” Naomi’s glib expression did nothing to hide her amusement at his mental implosion.

“Yes.” He covered his mouth with his hand and cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize you might want to participate.”