“I don’t want him to resist me.” She sank her lips into an indulgent pout. “I don’t like being resisted.”

“You’re a grown woman. You can fall into bed with almost anyone you want.” Clara’s tone shifted into one Naomi recognized from their daily team stand-up meetings: authoritative but kind. “Stop using sex as a shield to keep people at arm’s length. This is your dream. No excuses.”

When had the universe fallen so out of sync? Naomi was supposed to be the aggressive one in this pair. She’d empowered Clara too much over the last few years. The old Clara, fresh off the plane from Greenwich, Connecticut, would never have told Naomi what to do.

“All right. Fine.” A diluted sense of dignity kept her from pouting.

Her business partner grinned.

“Not because you told me to, but because I’m getting old and boring, and if I don’t create some new controversy to hold public interest, I’ll fade into the shadows of infamy.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Clara said. “Infamy is beneath you. Your collective exploits are worth at least a hardcover memoir on the New York Times Best Seller list.”

Naomi pretended to adjust the seat of her chair so Clara wouldn’t see her smile. “You know, you really came in hot this morning.”

“Yeah, well”—Clara tucked her hair behind her ear—“this intimidating redhead at work keeps telling me I’m a badass business bitch and I better act like it.”

“I’ve created a monster.” Naomi shooed Clara off her desk by spanking her hip with a file folder.

In no hurry at all, Clara made her way toward the door. “So, you’ll call him and tell him you accept?”

Naomi clicked her mouse a little harder than necessary. “I don’t have his number.” She’d fully destroyed the business card.

“Hello, he’s a rabbi in L.A. You know his name. Google him.”

“Oh yeah.” Naomi rolled her eyes. “Because Googling a hot stranger worked out so well for you.”

Clara looked wistfully down at her engagement ring. “Man, it really did.”

Chapter Three

ON WEDNESDAY NIGHTS, Ethan ran a meeting for mourners. It was outside the purview of Beth Elohim’s historical programming, but since the majority of the congregants he’d inherited had been born during the Second World War, death quickly became their common denominator. The gathering, held in one of the synagogue’s smaller side rooms, had ended forty minutes ago. But Morey, seventy-eight and a regular, liked to linger and malign Ethan’s shuffleboard skills over paper cups of juice.

In the middle of a groan protesting one of Morey’s more colorful claims, Ethan’s gaze landed on the doorway.

He blinked twice.

If the frown on her face was anything to go by, Naomi Grant was wondering if she was in the right place.

Unfortunately, Ethan couldn’t blame her. The outdated wallpaper and scuffed floors didn’t exactly show the synagogue, originally built in the 1920s and updated for the last time somewhere shortly after, to its best advantage. Budgets were tight. They kept things clean and running, but they didn’t have any of the glamour of some of the other Hollywood shuls. Ethan himself had been up on a ladder that afternoon cleaning air ducts. He still had stubborn smudges of dust up and down both forearms to prove it.

If Naomi took one look at their sorry state—his and the facility’s both—and didn’t like it, well, there wasn’t much he could do.

He gave her a little wave that had no effect on the downward curve of her lips.

“Excuse me a moment,” he said into Morey’s good ear, getting to his feet from the folding chair he’d been occupying.

Gesturing for Naomi to join him in the hallway, Ethan shut the door behind him.

Sometime earlier this week, he’d convinced himself that the way her beauty had hooked him behind the navel and yanked was a fluke. A trick of the conference center lighting. Or a consequence of an empty stomach.

No such luck.

She frowned at him now, brows drawn together over her nose. Her obvious displeasure did nothing to dampen the fact that there was something brilliant about her. Like she was painted in brighter colors than everyone else. He found himself a little breathless, drinking in the sight of her in the dim corridor like oxygen.

The word “Wow” escaped his lips. He shook his head immediately, heat rushing up his neck. “I mean, hi.”

A ripple of something passed across the surface of her scowl, and for the first time since he’d met her, Ethan could imagine how devastating it must be when she smiled.

“I think I prefer ‘wow,’” she said, studying him without apology.

A wave of self-consciousness rushed over him. Last time she’d seen him, the time she’d called him hot, he hadn’t been wearing his kippah. The ritual head covering should hardly make a difference, but maybe it did. Maybe when she looked at him now, she saw baggage and responsibility.

It was probably for the best. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to concentrate if she looked at him now the way she had at the convention center. Like he was something to be devoured.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again.” If ever there was a woman who had better things to do than speak to him, it was Naomi Grant.