Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (12 page)

Fortunately, Clinton had ridden to my rescue—again. Now if only the dress lived up to the promise, or more accurately, if only I lived up to the dress.

I kicked the bridesmaid’s monstrosity out of the way, and slid out of my jeans and T-shirt. Then, with exaggerated care, I slipped the dress off its hanger. The soft silk felt like gossamer fairy wings or something equally ethereal. I slid it over my head and, holding my breath, turned to look in the mirror.

It was pure magic.

I might not be a society maven, but I’m not immune to the potency of feeling beautiful. Even my bruises seemed to fade under the graceful flow of the gown. As I smoothed the full skirt over my hips, I felt that time-immemorial rush of feminine power.

Clinton was a genius—or more realistically, I suppose, Peter Hidalgo was. Anyway, what’s important was that I looked really good. I tightened the belt, and twirled in front of the mirror.

“How’s it going in there?” Clinton called.

“I look like a princess or a goddess or something. It’s amazing. Come on in and see for yourself.” I twirled again, my heart fluttering along with the skirt hem.

“It’s just a frame, Andi,” Clinton said from the doorway. “The beauty’s all yours.”

“No more wine for you,” I said, taking a sip from his glass. “You’ve gone poetic.”

“I’ve only had a glass.”

“Well, it’s not me. It’s the dress. It’s absolutely fabulous. But which shoes?” I stared at the bottom of my closet and the tumble of shoes that covered the floor. “I’m afraid I don’t own anything worthy of this dress.”

“What’s a beautiful dress without the right shoes?” He smiled, handing me the abandoned garment bag.

I’d been so excited about the dress, I’d totally missed the bulge in the bottom. I pulled out a box—Jimmy Choo. Bethany would be having an orgasm. And I’ll admit my heart was beating a bit faster.

The shoes were almost as beautiful as the dress. Black patent sandals with gold-framed four-inch heels. I slipped them on and turned to face the mirror. The woman looking back had a cool elegance I’d never seen before.

Clinton came to stand behind me, twisting my normally unruly hair into a chic knot of curls. “Not bad at all, if I do say so myself.” He fastened a sparkling clip to hold my hair in place and stepped back with a smile. “Now just a touch of powder on the bruises and you’ll be good to go.”

I twirled again, feeling ridiculously giddy. “Whoever said that clothes make the girl was on to something.”

“Actually, the quote is ‘Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.’ Mark Twain.”

“Well, he knew what he was talking about,” I laughed, still twirling.

“On many levels,” Clinton agreed.

Mark Twain and Cinderella’s fairy godmother—who knew they had anything in common? But it turns out they were both right—it’s all about the dress.

Chapter 9

Considering I’ve been dating for almost fifteen years now, you’d think I could handle almost anything. I mean, over the years, I’ve pretty much seen it all. Good dates, bad dates, half-remembered dates, completely unmentionable dates. You know the drill.

But somehow with Ethan McCay everything seemed different. Maybe it was the circumstances, or maybe it was the man, but I don’t remember the last time I was this nervous about anything.

Thankfully, the rainstorm had played itself out. The taxi had dropped me on the corner of First and Seventy-second, but even though the restaurant was only a few yards away, I hadn’t moved an inch. In fact, I was seriously considering retreat.

All I had to do was hold up a hand, hail a cab, and I was out of here. Of course, then I’d have to admit defeat. And I’ve never been one to do that easily. And besides, Clinton would never let me live it down.

Keeping that thought front and center, I stepped through the door into Nino’s. There’s something so wonderful about a restaurant that opens its arms to greet you. And in this case the greeting came from the man himself. Nino Selimaj. Nino’s is the crown jewel in his restaurant kingdom, and I’ve got to say it’s my personal favorite, although each has its own unique charm.

Positano, the midtown location, was more low-key, geared toward business lunches and corporate dinners. The West Side location, Nino’s Tuscany, had that theater district vibe. You know, terminally happy patrons, live piano music—in general an atmosphere that appealed to the musical-bound masses. My Nino’s, on the other hand, was totally Upper East Side—understated but elegant, catering to the fur-clad co-op crowd. It was the kind of place I sent out-of-towners who wanted a taste of old New York.

Nino kissed me on both cheeks and then asked after Althea (she regularly entertains clients here). I explained that I was meeting Ethan, and taking my elbow in that wonderfully continental way, he escorted me to a private table in a corner, where, with a smile and a bow, he left me to wait—alone.

Apparently, even with all my hesitation, I’d still managed to be early.

I sat down and made a play of looking at my menu. I know it’s going to sound vain but I always feel like everyone is looking at me. There’s just something so pathetic about sitting at a table all alone. Either you don’t have anyone to eat with or you think you do, but they’re not showing. It’s horrible. So I’ve developed a routine. At first I pretend to have great interest in the menu, while surreptitiously checking my watch every few minutes. Then I go through the whole “sipping the water, eyeing the crowd as if they’re here only for my amusement” routine. That usually works for about two or three minutes. And if that isn’t enough time to produce my tardy dinner date, then I pull out my phone.

Instant distraction. Honestly. A cell phone or tablet is the perfect solution for any awkward situation. You can check your messages, answer e-mail, catch up on the news, or even play a game. You’re not required to actually talk with someone—that would mean admitting your stupid insecurities—but you do look busy. Which at least as far as the world is concerned moves the pity meter back down to a more palatable level.

Of course even that doesn’t work forever. And eventually people at neighboring tables are back to wondering if maybe you’re being stood up.

I hate it.

It’s like I’ve become the floor show.

I glanced at my watch, toyed with my sparkling water, and debated the wisdom of ordering a glass of wine.

Really, I’m usually not so insecure. But it hadn’t been the easiest of weeks. And I was on a date. My first in ages. Or I would be if said date bothered to show up. I lifted my head, and aimed a regal smile at the restaurant’s other patrons. If nothing else I could pretend that I hadn’t a care in the world.

And then, just as I was congratulating myself for my serene composure (and checking my watch for like the seventy thousandth time), the maître d’ approached with Diana Merreck in tow. I kid you not.

Clearly I was under some kind of curse.

“Andi?” she said, smiling down at me as she lifted diamond-clad fingers to throat in feigned concern. “I told Dillon I thought it was you.”

And then there he was, proof that life is indeed more horrifying than anything the subconscious could possibly dream up. I considered making a run for it, but I kind of doubted that Nino would appreciate my taking out diners and tables in the process.

And besides, I had my pride.

So instead of a fifty-yard dash, I straightened my new dress and pasted on a smile. “What a surprise running into the two of you here.” When we were together, Dillon had always insisted Nino’s was too stuffy.

“It’s one of my favorites. So, are you here on your own?” Diana simpered, not waiting for me to answer. “We certainly can’t have that.”

Dillon, to his credit, looked like he’d rather have unanesthetized prostate surgery than share a table with the two of us, but even that couldn’t cancel Diana’s smug proprietorial smile.

“We’d love to have you join us.” Right, and Jon Bon Jovi will be the next president.

“Actually, I’m meeting someone,” I said, surprised to hear my voice sound so normal. Considering that I was having trouble drawing breath, it was a miracle, really. “But thanks for the offer.”

I fisted one hand in my lap, digging my nails into my palm, trying to control the emotions surging through me—hatred being right up there at the top of the list.

“I saw your show this week,” Diana said, her eyes narrowing to very unattractive slits, the tension between us tightening into something almost palpable. Dillon had actually retreated a step, making a great study of the top of his shoes.

“Really?” With sheer force of will, I maintained my smile, feeling like my face was going to crack into pieces with the effort. “I hope you enjoyed it.”

“It wasn’t what I’d hoped for,” she said with a calculated shrug. “But I hardly think one bad review on one tiny little cable program is likely to have any real impact.”

“You’d be surprised at how many people watch that tiny little program,” I responded, trying to hold on to my rapidly escalating temper.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” Ethan’s voice came from somewhere over my left shoulder. Enter the cavalry. Perfect timing, as usual. He was definitely making a habit of riding to my rescue. Not that I was complaining.

“Ethan,” I said, relief making me almost giddy. “I was wondering where you were.”

“Sorry. My driver got stuck in traffic. Damn storm.”

“This is Dillon Alexander,” I said. “My ex?” Recognition dawned, and Ethan’s jaw tightened. “And this is Diana Merreck,” I continued, nodding in her direction. “Dillon’s new girlfriend.” The word rolled off my tongue with only the slightest bit of sarcasm, and I realized that with Ethan’s arrival I’d actually started breathing again.

“Interesting,” he said as Diana turned toward him, eyes widening in recognition. Her surprise was almost comical, except that it raised a number of rather disturbing questions.

Diana opened her mouth to say something (bitchy, no doubt) but Ethan cut her off. “It was nice of you both to keep Andi company, but now that I’m here . . .” His tone was just this side of dismissive, and from the pinched look on Diana’s face, I guessed she’d gotten the point.

“Yes, well, we were planning on a romantic dinner for two anyway.” Never let it be said that Diana Merreck wasn’t capable of securing the last word.

Except that in saying nothing, somehow Ethan managed to trump her anyway.

They sidled away in a manner that I’m ashamed to admit I took great pleasure in. But then I’ve never claimed to be immune to the thrill of coming out on the winning side of an unpleasant situation, even when I had nothing at all to do with obtaining the victory.

“I hope you don’t mind—,” Ethan started, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.

“I’m delighted. I can’t think of anyone I’d less like to spend time with right now. You were great.” And suddenly I was extremely happy that I hadn’t chickened out.

“Well, normally,” he said, “I wouldn’t cut someone off so rudely, but I thought it was warranted, considering the circumstances.”

“More than warranted. I’m not sure why, but Diana seems intent on rubbing my face in the fact that she has Dillon and I don’t.”

“She can be like that.”

“So you do know her? I thought there was a moment between the two of you.” I waited, biting the side of my lip, not sure I really wanted to hear about their connection.

“Yes. I know her. But we aren’t exactly on the best of terms.”

“Judging by her reaction, I thought maybe you were old lovers or something.” I’d tried for light, but ended up sounding more accusatory. This dating stuff was hard. Especially when one threw one’s ex and his new lover into the mix.

“Hardly,” Ethan said, picking up his menu, signaling an end to my questioning.

“Sorry about the traffic,” I said, taking the hint. His relationship with Diana Merreck really wasn’t any of my business. “It took forever from downtown, too. I’d probably have been better off taking the subway, but there was no way I was going to try and negotiate all those stairs in these heels.” I lifted a foot to prove the point.

“Well, we’re here. And that’s all that matters,” he said with a smile. “And you look amazing, all things considered.” I didn’t know if he meant the rain or my run-in with Diana, but it was a lovely compliment either way.

“It’s the dress,” I said, feeling the warmth of a blush. “A friend gave it to me. For courage.” The last bit came out entirely on its own.

“Dinner with me took courage?” he asked with a crooked grin.

“No. Yes. Well, it’s been a while.” I’d been reduced to babbling nonsense.

“If it helps, I think you’re more than up to the task. With or without the dress.” My blush deepened at the double entendre.

“Thanks, I think . . .”

“So,” he said, thankfully changing the subject, “I take it you come here a lot? Nino was quite effusive when I told him I was meeting you.”

“He’s that way with everyone, actually. But it is one of my favorite restaurants. In fact, I was really pleased that you chose it. I’ve been coming since I was little.”

“That’s right. I remember you said you grew up near Carl Schurz.”

I nodded and we sat in companionable silence as we read over the menu.

I already knew what I wanted—-the homemade spinach and cheese ravioli in pesto is amazing—but I liked reading the menu anyway. There’s just something comforting in seeing ingredients combined together in a way only a superior chef could accomplish. Quail stuffed with shredded duck served with polenta and black currant sauce, smoked salmon and asparagus in puff pastry. The only thing better than reading the daily offerings, in my opinion, was eating the food.

I closed my menu and the waiter moved in. “I’ll start with the carpaccio and then have the ravioli, please.” I smiled up at him.

“And I’ll have the prosciutto salad, and then the Dover sole.” Ethan looked across his menu at me. “Is white wine okay?”

I nodded, pleased to have been consulted.

“Great. Then we’ll have a bottle of the Clos des Mouches,” he told the waiter, handing him his menu.

I followed suit, not sure if I was more impressed with the wine (which was extraordinary) or the fact that he knew enough to order the sole. Only regulars were aware it was available, since it was never listed on the actual menu.