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

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