Match Me if You Can

Prologue

I’m halfway through the restaurant when I see him. My brain registers him, bit by bit, like the twisted score of a horror movie slowly rising in volume. Warm brown skin. Sable eyes half-obscured by a baseball cap pulled down low. Fitted tee across a broad chest. Black jeans.

It’s been ten years since I last laid eyes on him, but I’d know this man anywhere.

Caleb Kahn.

He’s gorgeous. My brain sends out this memo like it’s an SOS, some archaic Code Red to alert my baby-making hormones that prime mating material is nearby and to flip my hair and stick my chest out so he notices me among the foliage of the jungle.

Needless to say, I’m horrified.

I’ve spent the last decade hating this man with a passion, and the idea that any part of me—no matter how small or how fleeting—would find him attractive is deeply unsettling.

I duck behind a pillar and place a hand over my racing heart.

It’s not that I never expected to see Caleb again.

I knew we’d cross paths again eventually, but I naively assumed I would have a little forewarning first. Some time to emotionally prepare myself before coming face to face with my brother’s best friend and my honorary childhood babysitter.

The one who, despite being only five years older and of no blood relation whatsoever, took it upon himself to help raise me after my father left.

I sneak another peek at Caleb, hoping the first time was a random hallucination, but no such luck. He’s still there, sitting at a table for two and drumming his fingers, impatiently waiting for his date to arrive.

My eyes dart around the restaurant, hoping to find another way out without having to walk past him, but it seems my only other option is to try to squeeze through the restroom window.

Calm down, Ashira. So what if he sees you? You have nothing to be ashamed of. After all, Caleb is the one who packed a suitcase and vanished one day out of the blue. Just like my father.

Maybe it would’ve hurt less if I hadn’t loved him so much.

Because the truth is that Caleb was the very best part of my childhood.

Nearly all my favorite memories involve him.

He was the one who taught me outdoorsy things like how to make a campfire and set up a tent, how to attach bait to a fishing pole, and how to jump off a cliff and dive into the shivering cold Hudson River without dying.

He showed me how to use a drill, and more importantly, how not to.

He taught me how to spit like a boss, change a spare tire, and throw a ball.

Basically, he taught me how to be a boy. And I loved every second of it.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

My father’s abandonment was traumatic, but it was Caleb’s disappearance that crushed my soul. Ever since, Caleb has been my daily reminder not to trust people.

“Can I help you?” a waiter asks, gazing down at me curiously. Only then do I realize that I’m hunched low to the ground.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just . . . admiring the view. Nice shoes, by the way.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.”

Once he leaves, I stand up straight and square my shoulders, determined to march past Caleb like the fearless, capable twenty-three-year-old that I am.

Besides, there’s a good chance that he won’t recognize me anyway.

The last time he saw me, I was short with frizzy hair and glasses, and sporting a mouthful of braces—hence his nickname for me, Tinsel. I look completely different now.

There’s no way he’ll realize who I am.

But just as I start walking, a beautiful older woman approaches Caleb’s table, her face lighting up when she sees him—and I realize I’m doomed. Utterly, fantastically doomed. Because even if Caleb doesn’t recognize the adult version of me, his mother certainly will.

Just as I turn on my heel to give that restroom window a try, Dr. Sheva Kahn’s gaze meets mine. Her grin widens and she waves me over, and the inevitability of the situation makes me feel slightly ill.

“Ashira!” she calls, in her unique accent that’s half Ethiopian, half Israeli. “Come say hi.”

And then, in what feels like slow motion, Caleb looks up. His eyes widen and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to reckon this random blonde woman with the Ashira he remembers.

Come on, girl. Put one foot in front of the other. You can do this.

And I do, albeit at the speed of someone heading to the guillotine.

Caleb unfolds his legs and stands up. He was always big, but now he seems impossibly tall. At five-foot-eight, I’m not exactly short, but even with my heels on, I find myself looking up at him.

“Ashira?” he says doubtfully. I nod and he adds after a beat, “You look so . . .” He circles his hand in the air as if that one gesture explains everything.

“Yes, I was just thinking that about you,” I say, to be on the safe side. Now no matter what he meant by it, we’re in the same boat.

“I doubt it,” he murmurs under his breath, so quietly that I almost wonder whether I imagined it.

“It’s been ages, hasn’t it?” I say breezily. As if I haven’t thought about him every single day or kept track of the time lost between us. As if I haven’t hated and missed him in equal parts.

“Ten years.” He dips his head and regards me with serious eyes.

“Gosh, that long?” I put a hand on my hip and shake my head. “We should’ve caught up sooner.”

He gives me a pointed look. “You’re not exactly easy to get a hold of.”

I suppose he’s referring to the fact that I blocked both his phone number and email. Luckily, I’ve had years to perfect my ‘dumb blonde’ act and I widen my eyes just enough to seem sincerely puzzled. “Maybe you’re doing it wrong?”

“Dialing?”

Amusement dances in his eyes, along with something new, something I’ve never seen before that causes my pulse to quicken.

“What are you up to nowadays?” Dr. Kahn asks.

“My mother and I started a matchmaking business,” I reply, grateful for the distraction from her son’s piercing eyes. I’ve always liked Dr. Kahn. Her good opinion matters to me in a way Caleb’s used to.

“Yes, yes, of course,” his mother demurs. “You know, now that I think of it, I should hire you to find Caleb someone.”

Caleb and I seem equally horrified by the thought.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says, shooting his mother a glare.

“Are you sure?” Clearly, the Machiavellian within me has come out to play. “Because I have lots of women available. Scores of them, in fact.”

His piercing, intelligent eyes land on mine, and I get the distinct impression that he knows exactly what I’m doing. How weird that he can still read me like a book even after all this time. “I’m sure.”

“Well, take this in case he changes his mind,” I say, handing a business card to Dr. Kahn.

“He won’t,” Caleb says firmly.

“Blue Moon Basherts,” Dr. Kahn reads, holding it far from her face and squinting. I used to be farsighted when I was a kid, so I sympathize.

“My mother came up with the name. She thought it sounded hopeful.” I focus all my attention on Dr. Kahn instead of the man beside me who’s giving off inferno-levels of heat.

“That it would remind people that everyone has a bashert, no matter their background or set of circumstances. Or,” I add, shooting a pointed glance at Caleb, “how difficult a person might be.”

One of Caleb’s eyebrows lifts as if to say, really?

“I like that. Your mother is so special.” Dr. Kahn lays her hand on my shoulder. “How is she?”

“She’s okay,” I say, biting my lip. My mother doesn’t like advertising the fact that she has heart disease, but people know she’s sick with something serious because she’s on the community prayer list.

“Good.” Dr. Kahn gestures to the table. “Stay and eat with us.” She rattles off a directive in Hebrew to Caleb, telling him to bring over a third chair, but I shake my head and take a step back.

“I wish I could,” I say, “but I’m meeting with a client soon.”

“Ah, okay.” Dr. Kahn nods, looking thoughtful. “But what about Sunday night? Are you busy?”

I hesitate, sensing a trap. “N-no?”

“Good.” She nods. “Come to our house at seven. Caleb is cooking a delicious anniversary dinner for me and his father.”

“Oh, wow, that’s so nice.” I bob my head several times in a row trying to figure out a good excuse. “Sooo, so nice.”

“You must come,” she adds, gently squeezing my hand. “I insist.”

“That’s so wonderful, um . . .”

“Isn’t it?” Caleb rests his chin in his palm, all innocent-looking, when I know that he knows that I’m panicking. “And I have a special pea dish planned.”

The urge to stick my tongue at him is almost overpowering. My hatred of peas goes back as far as I can remember, and we spent many nights arguing over them. He’d lecture me about their nutritional importance and in return, I’d flick them at his face.

But if there’s one thing that Caleb and I have in common, it’s our competitive nature.

Both of us would rather die than admit defeat which I suppose explains why he became a Navy SEAL and I turned to matchmaking.

Both jobs involve high stakes and trying to stay alive in hostile environments.

So if he thinks he can scare me away by talking about peas, then he’s got another thing coming.

“Fabulous.” I lean toward him and add, “I adore peas now. I have them at least once a day. In fact, I’m salivating just thinking about them.”

“Is that right?” Caleb says, in a tone of voice of someone who doesn’t believe a word of what he just heard. “Then you’re going to love my cantaloupe and pea salad.”

Cantaloupe and peas? I try not to gag. Some food combinations ought to be illegal. “Yum.” Am I scowling? Crap.

“And Bubby will be happy to see you,” he adds.

My smile slips. Caleb’s grandmother isn’t mean per se, but no one could accuse her of being nice either. “Not as happy as I will be to see her,” I reply.

He grins and rocks back on his heels. “I’ll just bet.”

Dr. Kahn glances back and forth between us like a spectator at a tennis match. “Excellent. We will see you then?”

“Definitely.” I smile, narrowing my eyes at Caleb. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Something in the air crackles as Caleb bends down and whispers softly in my ear, “Make sure to come hungry.”

Caleb Kahn, I realize, has turned into all sorts of trouble. And although the matchmaker in me is already flipping through my mental database for potential matches, the woman in me can’t help but wonder just how good a little bit of trouble might feel.