6. Hilliard
Hilliard
Hilliard stared into the kitchen at the remnants of the meal he’d shared with Monty from his seat at the dining room table. He knew he would never be able to sleep that night if he didn’t wash the dishes, as much as he wanted them to be tomorrow’s problem.
The trouble with having a caring heart was that it could be downright exhausting.
Their difficult conversation had gone well enough, better than he’d expected it to.
Monty had always been the type to get emotional when he was upset or frustrated, so he’d been prepared for the tears.
But sometimes Hilliard still surprised himself with how much sincerity he could push into a couple of passionate sentences.
He’d meant every word of it, of course, but he also worried that if things didn’t work out the way he hoped they would–knew they would–he’d be letting Monty down even more.
He took the last bite of his dessert and got up from the table, making his way to the sink.
As he filled it with warm, soapy water, he turned his attention to the view out the window.
There was his Cadillac, parked in its usual spot, and beside it sat Monty’s sporty roadster, shiny and red even at night.
His first thought was that they looked nice sitting there together, side by side on Hilliard’s short driveway.
His faint smile faded as he looked over his shoulder at the telephone where it sat on its small table in the entryway.
Monty had promised he would call when he made it home. That’d been almost an hour ago.
Hilliard turned off the water and reached for a tea towel to dry his hands. He flipped it across his shoulder as he sat in the chair beside the telephone, dialing Monty’s number. A dozen unanswered rings came through the receiver before he hung up.
Henrietta was sitting at his feet, her dark eyes on him.
“I know,” he told her quietly, making her tail wag. “I know I worry about him too much.”
But somebody had to.
* * *
Hilliard parked across the street from the first bar between his home and Monty’s.
He’d found him there a few times in the past, even joined him once, so he figured it was a good place to start.
The inside was dark but relatively calm as he began checking the bar, the tables, and each booth for a familiar face.
When he found it, his chest tightened with concern.
Monty had just tossed back whatever was in his coupe glass, but that was the least of Hilliard’s worries.
The man was tucked between Cal’s young and somewhat solemn secretary and a gal he recognized but couldn’t place a name to.
All he knew was that she had a notepad in her hand and a rapt expression on her face.
“Montgomery,” Hilliard blurted when he got close enough.
The three of them turned their faces up to him at once. He got the distinct feeling that he was less of a friend and more of a guardian in that moment. Cal’s secretary said as much with an arched brow.
“Oops. Somebody’s in trouble.”
“What are you doing here?” Monty asked, pushing his empty glass to the center of the table.
“I could ask you the same,” Hilliard said, trying hard to hold back on his sense of defeat. By the sound of his voice alone, he could tell that Monty wasn’t completely gone to the drinks yet, at least. That was something. “You never called.”
“I said I would call when I got home,” Monty replied smoothly, and Hilliard saw it then. The subtle changes that often happened when Monty was working his magic; the flex of his jaw, the quirk of his mouth, the sparkle in his rich brown eyes. “I’m not home yet.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Hilliard offered a squinty-eyed, closed-lip, entirely forced smile to both of his companions.
There were many things he could’ve said.
Something sarcastic, or witty, or maybe even dredged up from the place deep inside him that he refused to acknowledge when Monty did something that hurt him.
It wasn’t the time or place for any of that, though.
He decided instead to hope that, in some way, Montgomery Kincaid was a little bit susceptible to his magic, too.
He gave a small shrug and jutted his thumb in the direction of the exit. “I only wanted to make sure you were safe. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
By the time he was pausing to look both ways before he crossed the street, a shadow had formed at his side.
Neither of them spoke as Hilliard drove them back to his house, nor as Monty stomped to the guest bedroom and slammed the door shut behind him.
Only the sound of dishes being scrubbed clean filled the air until the bedroom door opened and shut again, much more gentle this time, and Monty appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, stripped to his underclothes and socks.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I know,” Hilliard murmured.
“Do you forgive me?”
Hilliard turned to find him with his head leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed and dark hair ruffled as though he’d been grabbing fistfuls of it as he worked through his frustration alone in his room.
“Always,” Hilliard promised with a grin.
Monty pushed away from the doorframe and came to his side.
He bumped his forehead against Hilliard’s shoulder, letting it rest there for a moment, then reached for a towel and began drying one of the cups that had already been washed.
Hilliard expected the tight squeeze in his heart to be from his magic alone after such a tender moment.
But when the warmth spread down to his stomach and caused his next exhale to come out a bit fluttery, he knew it wasn’t.
“I think I know why Ezra was so fed up with me on tour,” Monty said after a while.
“Why?” Hilliard encouraged.
“I might’ve told them–directly to their face–that I was looking to get laid in every city.” There was a pause. “I also might’ve been fastening my belt at the time.” Another pause. “After they encountered me and a very enthusiastic fan in the alley behind the bar.”
Hilliard laughed. “Montgomery,” he sighed, shaking his head. “You little scamp.”
Monty chuckled too, then lifted his gaze from the plate he was drying to look out the window. “Maybe that’s why I’m feeling so down. I only managed it twice.”
“You poor thing,” Hilliard tutted.
Monty turned on him then, eyes bright. “Say, why don’t you be a pal?”
Hilliard’s forehead wrinkled. “I am not going to sleep with you so you’ll feel better about other people not sleeping with you,” he said blandly. “Best I can do is peach delight.”
Monty sighed up at the ceiling, long and forced.
“Fine,” he relented. “But it had better be the best damned peach delight I’ve ever had.”
“I guarantee that it is, sweetheart,” Hilliard told him with a wink.