“I know. I read your badge.” Then I realized how that sounded. I wanted to crawl into a hole. It had been eons since I had allowed myself to be alone with a man. I had forgotten what sparks felt like and how to handle them. “I noticed your name because it’s the same name as my stepbrother.”

His smile gained wattage. “So you are Jewish?”

“Yes, I am Jewish.”

He pointed to himself. “Already we have something in common.”

It was my turn to laugh. “You’re Jewish?”

“I keep forgetting that Americans find this unusual. In Israel, it is nothing because there are many of us. I’m an Ethiopian Jew. As a matter of fact, I am not only Jewish, but also a qes. That is Kohen in English. Do you know what that is?”

“Yes. It’s a Jewish priest. My stepfamily is very religious.”

“Stepfamily?”

“My father’s family. I don’t want to keep you from your duties. We really should go.”

“Yes, we should. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“You’re very forward.”

“I say curious. Still, you don’t have to answer.”

I didn’t. He gave me a closed-mouth smile. “I am taking a break as soon as I drop off the tray. Would you like to join me in some hospital cafeteria coffee?”

It was an innocent enough request. Much easier than an actual date.

And then I realized how long it had been since I actually had a real date. Trust was a problem for me in general. Trusting men was the impossible dream, but who could blame me after such a horrendous experience. Ironically, because Yaakov was black, it made things easier. All the dudes that I loathed and feared had been white. I said, “Depends on how long a break you have.”

“Usually five to ten minutes.”

How much trouble could I get into in ten minutes? I shrugged. “Okay.”

The man’s grin was abundant. Since he was carrying a tray, I opened the door for him. But he used his shoulder to keep it open for me. Standing next to him, he appeared a half foot taller than I was, about six-one or -two.

“After you,” he insisted.

I walked out first. “Just being polite or don’t you trust me out of your sight?”

“I work on my manners.” He let the door close behind us. “Israelis have a reputation of being rude. It is not unfounded, but only because we are too honest.” He smiled. “More like blunt.” He spoke as we ambled down the hallway. “You can call me Koby, by the way … as in Kobe Bryant. Although I spell it with a y and not an e.”

“You know, you look a little like Kobe Bryant.” I frowned. Jeez, what is wrong with me? I felt as stupid as a schoolgirl. “You’ve probably heard that before.”

“Yes. But it is strange. People tell me, but only after I mention my name. Especially in L.A., they hear the name Koby, see a tall black man, and automatically make this weird connection. Really, I don’t look like him.”