Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles)

by Dee Davis

  I took the corner, Jimmy Buffet lyrics ringing through my head. I’d never blown out a flip-flop but just at the moment it didn’t seem that far outside the realm of possibility.

  No sign of my wayward dog.

  I tried to call for him again, but thanks to the unintended wind sprint was capable only of an asthmatic whisper. A second bend appeared and I rounded it, thinking I was screwed, but no, there was Bentley—joyfully accosting a jogger, tongue lolling, tail wagging. (The dog, not the jogger.)

  I skidded to a stop. “I’m so sorry, he got away and . . . ,” I stopped, my heart, which was already beating chaotically, moving into triple time as my brain registered exactly who it was that Bentley was accosting.

  “I take it he belongs to you,” my stranger said with a crooked smile.

  “Yeah,” I whispered, trying to make sense of this newest turn of events.

  Okay, let’s just stop right here and say that walking in the park to clear my head is one thing. I mean, it’s just me and Bentley and a bunch of strangers. But running into the man who practically saved your life, wearing flip-flops, jeans, and a tatty T-shirt, is not the done thing. Especially when you add in the facts that I’d scrubbed off my makeup the minute we’d wrapped the show and that my hair, thanks to my recent wind sprint, probably resembled a Manhattan rat’s nest.

  I pushed said hair out of my face and strove for a calm I definitely didn’t feel. “I’m afraid he got away from me.” I looked down at Bentley, who was still eyeing my stranger with something akin to adoration. “He saw a squirrel and pulled free before I had a chance to react.”

  “Good thing I was here to head him off at the pass,” my stranger said, still smiling, his dark eyes taking in my disheveled appearance.

  “Yeah, I’m not exactly dressed for running.” But he was. Sweats, T-shirt, hot, sweaty—did I mention hot? Why is it men look good covered in sweat? It isn’t fair. Really. It’s not. “Anyway, thanks for saving the day. Again.”

  “Not a problem,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Just in the right place at the right time.”

  “Small world,” I said with a wry grin.

  “Well, it’s a little island.” He shrugged, reaching down to scoop Bentley up into his arms. My dog wiggled in doggy ecstasy as the man of the moment scratched him behind the ears.

  “You left without saying good-bye.” The words just came out of their own accord. But then my mouth had always had a mind of its own.

  “I thought maybe under the circumstances you’d rather be alone. Besides, your aunt had arrived, so I left you in good hands.”

  “That’s questionable, actually. But I understand. And I really do appreciate your help. You seem to be making a habit of riding to my rescue.”

  “Like I said, right place, right time,” he said, walking over to drop down on a bench, my moonstruck dog still snuggling in his arms. I followed with a sigh. It wasn’t like I had a choice. Really. He had my dog.

  “So,” I said, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bench, still wishing an Extreme Makeover team would arrive with the precision of a NASCAR pit crew to comb, curl, clothe, and otherwise transform me into something a little more presentable, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

  He frowned for a minute and then smiled. “Ethan McCay. I would have introduced myself last night, but you were kind of down for the count.”

  “Not my finest moment.”

  “So, who’s this?” he asked, tactfully steering to a less awkward subject.

  “Bentley.” I smiled as said named dog stretched out on the bench between us, tail thumping like mad.

  “As in the car?”

  “Exactly,” I said, nodding my approval. “My grandfather owned two of them. Classics from the fifties. And when I was little I loved riding around in them. So I guess it’s a tribute to my grandfather. At least in part.”

  “Well, it’s a great name for a dog.”

  “You really think so? Dillon never liked it.”

  “Dillon?”

  “My ex,” I said, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. “The one I broke up with last night. Bentley is really his dog. Well, at least technically. But it turns out Dillon’s not the nurturing type. At least when it comes to dogs. And since he spent more time at my apartment than his own, it just seemed simpler for Bentley to live with me. And now, under the circumstances, I figure—”

  “Possession is nine-tenths of the law?” Ethan finished for me.

  “Something like that. I really haven’t had time to think it through. I just know that I’m not giving him up.”

  “Well, I don’t blame you. And besides, I suspect Bentley’s better off with you.”

  I waited for something more, but he went silent, and it stretched between us hovering somewhere between awkward and comfortable.

  “I suppose we really should let you get back to your run,” I said, more out of polite necessity than any real desire to see him go.

  “It’s all right,” he assured me. “I was almost finished anyway. And it’s nice to have company while I cool down.”

  “So you live around here?” I asked, trying to picture what his apartment would look like.

  “Yeah, a couple blocks down from the Met.” He nodded in the direction of Fifth Avenue. Or at least I assumed it was that direction. I’d sort of gotten turned around as I’d chased Bentley along the twisting paths.

  “Wow. Nice address.” Actually, I abhorred it. But now wasn’t the time for a diatribe on Upper East Side living.

  “I’m just staying there until I find a place of my own. I’ve only been back in the city a couple of weeks.”

  “Really?” I asked, immediately curious. “So where’ve you been?”

  “Bouncing around. My family owns several companies and I’ve been traveling between them managing our legal affairs.”

  “You’re an attorney.” Upper East Side and a lawyer. Two for two—and I don’t mean that in a good way. Still, he had saved my life ... or very close to it.

  “Yes. Corporate. But right now I’m just taking care of the family business. My dad had a heart attack, and I’ve been trying to help out ”

  Okay, very decidedly un-Upper East Side. “So you said ‘back.’ I take it that means you’ve lived here before?”

  “Yeah, I grew up in the city, and most of my family is still here or at least somewhere nearby. How about you?”

  “Pretty much the same. Except that I never left. I grew up near Carl Schurz Park. With my aunt and my grandmother. Then, after a stint at NYU, I moved to SoHo.”

  “That’s right, you said last night that your apartment was in the neighborhood. So isn’t Central Park a little bit far afield?"

  "My aunt lives on Fifth. Nine twenty-seven. You know, the one with the hawks? Anyway, I stayed with her last night. The doctor seemed to think I needed supervision.”

  “Probably a wise idea.” He nodded, his fingers ruffling Bentley’s fur. “You could have had a concussion. So how are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good, considering. I’ve got bruises on my bruises, and a lot of stitches. But all in all, I’d say I’m on the mend. I even managed to tape my show this morning.”

  “Your show?” he prompted.

  “Yeah. I have a television show. On the Gourmet Channel.” I explained about What’s Cooking and my unexpected shot at prime time, as well as my overenthusiastic gaffe and the mess it had landed me in. I’m not usually a “spill your guts to strangers” kind of girl, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.

  “So basically,” he said, still scratching Bentley behind his ears, “you’ve backed yourself into a corner. You’ve got to produce Philip DuBois or one of your competitors gets the slot.”

  “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.