Free Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) by Dee Davis

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