Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (8 page)

“That basically sums it up. Which means that, thanks to my big mouth, I’m screwed.”

“Surely you’re not giving up that easily.”

“Well, no. I’m not. But if I’d had the chance to think about it—I mean, really think—I’d never have made the suggestion. I kind of have a tendency to talk first and think later.”

“But it sounds like your producer kind of jumped the gun."

"Well, it’s part of her charm. Or at least her success. Anyway, the point is I’ve got no one to blame but myself. So now I’ve just got to formulate a plan. Hence the walk in the park.”

“It’s definitely a good place for thinking.”

“Except that I haven’t come up with much. The man’s truly publicity shy. Which means that it’s almost impossible to gain access of any kind. Still, I figure where there’s a will, there’s a way."

“If I had to bet, I’d definitely put my money on you.”

“From your mouth . .

“I’m usually right about these things.”

“Positive thought.” I smiled, suddenly feeling a little shy. “Anyway, none of it is going to do me any good if I can’t figure out a way to reach him.”

“Well, if it helps, I’m pretty sure DuBois’ company uses Metro Media to handle his PR. That might be as good a place as any to start.”

“There you go, coming to my rescue again.” I’d meant the words sincerely but somehow they came out sounding flip.

“Hardly,” he said, the silence between us growing awkward again.

“I’m sorry, that didn’t come out right,” I backpedaled, cursing my overactive mouth. “It’s just that, considering the circumstances, it’s sort of odd that you’d know DuBois. I mean, first you rescue me, and then my dog, and now my business.”

“Well, I only told you who handles his PR. What you do with the information is up to you. And for the record, I don’t know the man personally. My family’s company has done business with his a couple of times. That’s all. Are you always this cynical?”

“No. Actually, I’m usually quite the optimist. It’s just been a tough twenty-four hours. But it would have been a lot rougher if it hadn’t been for you. I didn’t mean to sound rude.”

“You’re fine. As you said, you’re not at your best. And frankly,” he said, waving at his running attire, “neither am I. So what do you say we try this again? Over dinner. Tonight?”

“Oh. I, uh . . . I can’t. Really. I’m afraid I’ve already got plans.” I didn’t. And I wasn’t sure exactly why I was pretending I did. Except that, to be completely honest, Ethan McCay scared me. I mean, I was in love with Dillon, and breakup notwithstanding, I shouldn’t be thinking about another man. It was too soon.

“Okay.” He shrugged, obviously unaware of my internal struggle. “Then how about tomorrow?”

“No. I can’t.” The words came out much stronger than I had intended, and I immediately wished them back.

“I see,” he said, his voice cooling by a couple of degrees.

“I’m sorry,” I rushed to explain. “But I’ve only just split with Dillon and I’m just not ready for another relationship.”

His mouth twitched at the corner. “I wasn’t suggesting we get engaged. Just get to know each other a little better.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. It’s just that everything’s turned upside down right now. And I don’t need any more complications. Not that you’re a problem. You’re great. It’s just that I’m a mess. I mean, even if it weren’t for Dillon, there’s still the matter of my head, you know, my stitches—the concussion.” I was babbling. Even Bentley was looking at me as if I’d grown two heads. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not making any sense at all. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I mean, gosh, I should be asking you to dinner. To say thank you. After all, I ruined your jacket. And quite probably your evening. But at the moment, I just don’t think I’m up to it.” I’d gone from muddled to addled in under fifteen seconds.

“It’s okay,” he said, laying his hand over mine. “I understand. Truly.”

I bit my bottom lip, feeling all of about sixteen. “I’m sorry.”

“Look,” he said, reaching into his pocket, “why don’t we do this. I’ll give you my number, and if you change your mind, you can call me.” He produced a business card and handed it to me.

I nodded, shoving the card into my pocket, words finally having completely deserted me.

Ethan stood up and Bentley jumped to the ground, tail wagging, ready to follow his new friend wherever he might be going. I envied him his complete and utter trust. “Clearly, my dog adores you.”

“So that’s got to be a vote in my favor. Right?”

“You don’t need a vote of confidence. There’s nothing wrong with you. I told you, it’s me. I’m just not in a good place right now. But I really do appreciate the thought. More than you’ll ever know.”

He reached over to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear, bending close in the process, his breath mingling with mine. “So, call me.”

Our gazes met and held, and it occurred to me that I was probably going to look back on this moment with great regret. But before I could find the courage to say anything, he was off—which was probably for the best.

At least that’s what I told myself.

But I didn’t really believe it. And judging from the expression on Bentley’s fuzzy little face, neither did he.

Chapter 6

Home sweet home is supposed to denote a safe haven. A place where one can escape from the evils of the world. But apparently that doesn’t apply when one’s home was recently inhabited by one’s ex. Especially when his stuff is lying literally everywhere. I’d never really thought of Dillon as a slob before, but the evidence was overwhelming.

I live on the top floor of what was once a factory and then a warehouse. In the sixties the building was abandoned and then invaded by struggling artists who set up studios and created the bohemian culture SoHo is still known for today.

By the time I came on the scene, though, it was just an apartment building. Granted, one with really high ceilings and large rooms, but nothing particularly special. I had a huge living area, a third of which was dedicated to a state-of-the-art open kitchen, and a smaller adjoining room that served as my bedroom. But even though I adored my kitchen, that wasn’t why I bought the apartment. The real pièce de résistance was located at the top of a spiral staircase. The small doorway at the top opened onto what, in Manhattan, was equivalent to the holy grail—a rooftop garden with amazing views. And, thanks to a rather sizable inheritance from my grandfather, it belonged completely and totally to me.

As a result, I was definitely cash poorer, but with skyrocketing property values, I was sitting on a real estate gold mine. Not that I had any intention of ever selling. That had been the primary reason Dillon and I hadn’t officially moved in together. He owns an apartment downtown in one of those high-rise, high-dollar monstrosities that are slowly replacing buildings with character. His idea of heaven is a staff and an amenity-heavy building. Character be damned.

I wouldn’t sell. And neither would he. Of course I’d believed that eventually he’d come around to my way of thinking. Which, considering the fact that half of his worldly possessions were strewn across my living room, hadn’t been totally unjustified. I mean, he had, for all practical purposes, been living here with me.

Which would have been fine if he hadn’t been spending the rest of his time with Diana.

So color me clueless. Isn’t that always the way?

Anyway, to add injury to insult, he’d left me at least five voice mails. The first couple were pretty apologetic, I have to admit, but the latest ones were all about getting his stuff, including Bentley. Fat chance. It was tempting to just burn the lot (not the dog, of course), but I figured it would just be easier to pack everything up and ship it off to his apartment.

So after deleting the rest of my messages, most of them unheard, I grabbed a FreshDirect box I’d stored in the closet and started gathering up the paraphernalia that apparently had defined my relationship with Dillon.

I’d miss his DVD collection. We both had a fondness for Cary Grant movies. I slipped his copy of Bringing Up Baby back onto the shelf. Surely I deserved a little compensation. I was the wounded party, after all. Next up were his CDs. Nothing here that I couldn’t replace. In fact, I’d never miss most of it. Particularly his predilection for the Talking Heads. With the box half full, I moved to the bedroom, emptying hangers and drawers. Considering the man had his own apartment, he’d kept a lot here.

Bentley watched as I moved on to the bathroom and a second box. Then finally, in a fit of adrenaline-spurred anger, I stripped photographs of Dillon from picture frames scattered around the apartment. I was on the verge of cutting him out of two of my favorite group shots when the house phone started to ring.

I checked the security camera and recognized Bethany and Clinton standing at the front door. With a sigh, I buzzed them in, not certain I was really up to company but definitely not up to trying to explain it over the ancient contraption that passed as our building’s intercom. For aesthetic reasons they hadn’t replaced the boxes when they’d added the new security system. Which meant I could see the person at the door, but any attempt at conversation was accompanied by enough static to drive a sane person around the bend.

The only thing older than the intercom was the elevator. So I unlocked the door and returned to the granite-topped kitchen island and my cutting spree.

“What’s with the boxes?” Bethany asked when she and Clinton finally let themselves into the apartment. “It looks like someone’s moving.”

“Dillon.” I nodded as I clipped through his face with a satisfied smile. “I considered a bonfire, but figured the building board wouldn’t approve. Seemed simpler just to message his things.”

“Sans photographs,” Clinton observed as I cheerfully slit another picture.

“I just didn’t want to look at him.”

“Looks like fun,” Bethany said. “Can I help?”

“All done, actually.” I smiled. “So what brings you guys to SoHo?” Bethany lived on the West Side and Clinton had a fabulous loft in the East Village, neither of which is exactly in the neighborhood.

“Just wanted to see how you were doing,” Bethany said.

“And I brought sustenance,” Clinton said, holding up a bag of groceries. “Got everything here for your favorite mac and cheese.”

“The one from Artisanal?” Artisanal is a restaurant at Park and East Thirty-second that’s known for its cheeses, particularly fondue. But personally, I love their macaroni and cheese. I swear it’s the best I’ve ever tasted. The key is using good Gruyere, and majorly buttered bread crumbs. It’s not diet friendly but it really hits the spot when you need a little comfort food. “Just what the doctor ordered,” I said, tossing the last of Dillon into the trash. “You’re wonderful.”

“I try,” Clinton said with a smile, laying the groceries on the counter and beginning his prep. “Anyway, we figured you could use a little TLC.”

I smiled, suddenly feeling absurdly happy. “So what else have you got?”

“Bordeaux,” Bethany said, flourishing a couple of bottles of my favorite French Medoc. “And chocolate. Martine’s.” She pulled the signature pink box from a Bloomingdale’s bag.

“Perfect.”

Fifteen minutes later, mac and cheese bubbling in the oven, we settled down on my sofa and chairs with glasses of wine and a plate of freshly made crostini. It pays to have a chef as a best friend. (Not that I can’t manage a spread when called upon, mind you. It’s just that sometimes it’s nice to have someone else do the cooking.)

“You don’t look as bad as I expected,” Bethany said. “I mean, you can hardly see the stitches, and your bruises are already fading.”

“Actually, they’ve gone Technicolor,” I laughed, lifting my T-shirt to show off the yellow, green, and purple staining my rib cage.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Only when I breathe.” I laughed again, taking a sip of wine. “Actually, it really doesn’t hurt that much.”

“So how many Vicodin are you taking?” Clinton asked, reaching for a crostini.

“I’m down to one at a time. But I admit I’m still taking them right on schedule. All in all, though, I was pretty lucky. It could have been a lot worse.”

“So what about your rescuer?” Bethany asked. “Has he called or anything?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” I said, a blush staining my cheeks, “I ran into him in the park.”

“Small world,” Clinton observed.

“That’s just what I said. The whole thing was all Bentley’s doing, really.” Bentley’s ears perked up at the sound of his name and he gave up hovering for dropped crostini, jumping up beside me on the sofa instead. “He managed to get off leash. Chasing a squirrel. And anyway, one thing led to another and there he was—my stranger. He was jogging and intercepted Bentley at a bend in the path.”

“So did you find out who he is?”

“Of course. His name is Ethan McCay.”

“Never heard of him,” Clinton said. “But then even I don’t know everyone in the city. Bethany?”

“The last name is vaguely familiar but nothing concrete is coming to mind.”

“Well, it wouldn’t,” I said. “He’s only just moved back to the city. He’s an attorney. Works for his family’s business.”

“Sounds interesting. What else did you guys talk about?"

"Nothing specific, really. We talked about my accident. And I told him about my show and the mess I landed myself in. Which reminds me. He mentioned Metro Media. Thinks maybe someone there is handling DeBois’ PR.”

“If that’s true,” Clinton said, “it might just give us the in we need.”

“I thought the same thing. The trick, of course, being to find out who it is.”

“I might be able to help there,” Bethany said. “I sold a sweet little co-op on West Eighty-second to a woman who works for Metro Media. She’s really chatty. Do you want me to see what I can find out?”

Bethany’s a real estate broker. With Corcoran. She spends most of her time squiring people around town trying to find the perfect space for them to land. And considering average apartment prices have passed the million-dollar mark, it’s a pretty lucrative way to make your living. Anyway, in this city, once you find a good broker you tend to hang on to them, which means that Bethany has a very eclectic and often quite connected list of clients.