Chapter 10
Hilliard
After the meeting with Ezra had gone about as well as it possibly could have, Hilliard brought Monty to his home for the second time that day so that he could begin making good on his agreement with Ezra and pack for an extended stay.
“I can always bring you back for more clothes if you need them,” he said, watching from the chair in the bedroom as Monty sorted through all of his clothes. He was acting like he’d never get to see them again if they wouldn’t fit in one of the five sturdy leather suitcases open on the bedspread.
“I want to do exactly as Ezra said,” Monty muttered as he tossed one shirt behind him onto the bed and hung another back up. Then he paused and turned sharply. “And what do you mean by that? I’m taking my car. I can bring myself back.”
Hilliard’s forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure that’s the best idea? If we’re to go everywhere together, I don’t see why you need the roadster. It’ll only be a temptation for you.”
After a long, tormented pause, Monty’s shoulders drooped.
“You’re right.” Then he brightened again. “Does that mean you’ll let me drive the Cadillac?”
Hilliard chuckled. “Absolutely not.”
Monty glared at him, but it was quickly replaced with a playful grin and he swatted a hand in Hilliard’s direction dismissively.
“I’ll just keep asking,” he said in a sing-song way.
“I’ll just keep saying no,” Hilliard promised in the same tone.
Monty continued going through his extensive wardrobe, commenting on where he’d bought a certain jewel-tone shirt, or when he’d worn this striped vest for the first time, until he came across something that made him burst out laughing.
“I forgot I had these,” he said, lifting them up so Hilliard could see. It was a pair of sturdy denim pants fit for a hard day’s work. Unsurprisingly, they looked as though they’d never been worn.
“That is the most Midwestern article of clothing I have ever seen,” Hilliard drawled. “Did you steal those from a cowboy? Did you steal them off a cowboy?”
Monty said, “My aunt sent them to me,” and before Hilliard could tell him that explained everything if it was the aunt who lived in Wisconsin, Monty was unbuckling his belt and pushing his trousers off his hips.
Hilliard’s face warmed as he forced his gaze up to the ceiling, then out the window overlooking the backyard.
“I wasn’t aware I’d be getting a fashion show when I agreed to help with this.”
Hilliard peeked at the man just long enough to get a glimpse of his silky green undershorts—and the way they were pulled taut across his backside as he struggled to remove his shoes, now that he’d tangled them up in a pool of trouser fabric.
He finally braced a hand on the thick post of his bed and managed to pull or kick everything off.
“Consider it a show of my appreciation,” Monty said with a very smug expression as he turned toward Hilliard, leaning himself against the post with his opposite hand and popping his hip out, striking an exaggerated pose that worked entirely too well for him.
Monty knew he was attractive, but the real trouble was that he knew Hilliard thought he was attractive, too.
He had to know. Why else would he do such things?
“It’s certainly a show of something,” Hilliard agreed. “Let’s see these cowboy pants before you hurt yourself.”
Monty tugged the dark denim up his legs, hips moving again in the effortless way only a dancer’s could as he tucked his shirt in, starting on the right and moving around the back to the left.
He walked over to his full-length mirror as he did, stopping there to fasten the front, which Hilliard really could not bring himself to watch, even in the reflection.
He focused instead on the strangely intimate sight of Monty’s sock feet.
“I think I should wear these,” Monty decided almost immediately, admiring himself. “I’ve seen you wear jeans before, haven’t I?”
“Strictly in the privacy of my own home.” He had one pair that was nearly worn through on the knees, but they were so comfortable everywhere else that he hated the thought of throwing them out.
An attempt to patch them would have to be made first. “I wear them when I’m gardening, or when I do laundry. ”
Monty’s face twisted in outrage. “You wash your own clothes?”
“Not all of them,” Hilliard reasoned, holding back a grin at Monty’s expression. “I send the expensive stuff out.”
“Just when you think you know a guy,” Monty lamented, shaking his head in disbelief. Then a new sense of fear seemed to overtake him. “Now, wait just a minute. Are you going to make me wash my own clothes while I’m staying with you?”
Hilliard’s brows went up as he eyed what Monty had put on, finally allowing himself to admire the way they fit his waist and thighs. “Well, now that I know you have the pants for it…”
Monty let out a short cry of outrage and immediately began taking them off. Hilliard laughed, knowing all too well that he would be happy to wash Monty’s unmentionables for him. This plan was unexpected, to say the least, but the magic in his heart was burning bright.
* * *
Hours later, just as the sun was setting over the hills in the distance, Hilliard carried a tray out onto the front porch and set it between the two rocking chairs he’d whitewashed himself. Henrietta had tired herself out exploring the yard and was asleep by Monty’s feet.
He could’ve served something more elaborate to welcome his guest–when his sister came to stay for a month two years earlier, he’d prepared an entire five-course meal for her first night.
But he decided that comfort food was what they both needed instead.
Hilliard prepared a plate full of pimento cheese sandwiches just the way he’d learned from his grandmother and served them with two glasses of sweet iced tea.
There was half a coconut cake left in the refrigerator for dessert.
It was a warm night, perfect for dining outside.
The view from his porch was nothing spectacular, mostly just the other houses on his street, but the garden was in its full summer splendor.
Blue and purple hydrangeas bloomed right in front of their feet.
The gardenias preferred the full sun around the corner, but their delicate perfume still wafted on the air enough to reach them.
The beds were packed with colorful annuals that he’d planted several months earlier.
It was the garden he’d always dreamed about having someday.
“It’s so quiet here,” Monty said, cutting through the silence with a mouthful of sandwich.
It was more quiet than usual for a Friday night, Hilliard noted. “The Johnsons are visiting with family out of town this week. Otherwise, their children would be playing in the yard next door. They have two boys and a little girl, and another on the way.”
Monty hummed. “I packed my swimming trunks.”
Hilliard turned his face to him, brows pinched. “You know I don’t have a pool.” His backyard was hardly big enough to lie down in. Certainly a far cry from Monty’s pool that was big enough to swim laps.
“I know,” Monty said, a little mischief to his voice. “I only thought that if you’re going to make me wash my own clothes, then I’d better be prepared for getting all wet.”
Hilliard scoffed. “If you’re getting that wet, you’re doing it wrong.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Monty purred.
Hilliard realized he’d walked himself right into that little trap. He fought his grin and put his focus back on his flowers, crossing one knee over the other and rocking his chair smoothly. He loved the soft crunching sound it made of wood against wood. It reminded him so much of home.
“I’ll show you how it works. It’s not difficult once you get the hang of it.” He’d had the washing machine long enough now that it wasn’t any trouble to use. He found hanging the clean clothes up on the line to dry relaxing, so he always looked forward to that part at the end.
“Now that one I have heard.” Monty’s devilish smirk was enough to make Hilliard’s stomach flip. “And I certainly agree.”
“Listen here, you little rascal,” Hilliard said, voice low and grin on full display now.
“This is a family neighborhood. I won’t have you coming in here and causing Mrs. Lowry across the street any distress.
She’s prone to heart palpitations.” He pointed at the house next to hers.
“And the Webbs only just moved in a few months ago. I don’t want you to scare them off.
I haven’t even had them over for dinner yet. ”
“All right, all right.” Monty relaxed in his chair and rocked it too, taking another hearty bite of his sandwich. “I’ll behave.”
“That’s better.”
Hilliard reached for his glass of tea and studied the profile of the man next to him.
Monty desperately needed this. As much as he might like to fight it, he needed the quiet, the structure, the routine.
Hilliard almost wished he’d thought to suggest it before Ezra did, but of course it held much more weight coming from their producer.
He also didn’t think Monty would’ve ever agreed to leave his home for this, given the choice.
Montgomery Kincaid’s version of fun was raucous parties, drinking to forget, and falling into bed with whomever he thought looked interesting that night.
It was a world Hilliard had never explored.
But he also knew that somewhere inside Monty was a lonely person who just wanted to feel like he belonged.
And Hilliard knew he could provide that. This was his opportunity to show it.
After the last triangle of pimento cheese sandwich had been eaten, Monty stood and slipped his hands into his pockets.
Hilliard wondered if he should offer up something for them to do: a stroll to the end of the street, a game of cards, some music on the radio.
Or maybe the emotions of the day were finally catching up with him and he’d prefer to retire early.
Monty scuffed the toe of his shoe against the wooden boards of the porch and blinked up at the darkening sky. “Let’s read the script together.”
Hilliard pressed his lips together in a weak attempt to hide his gratified smile, heart straining with the instant warmth of his magic.
“All right.”
He carried the tray back to the kitchen and cut them both a generous slice of cake.
He swiped the serving knife clean with one finger and stuck it in his mouth, humming appreciatively at the flavor.
As he brought both plates to the living room and set them on the coffee table, his excitement mixed with uncertainty as he wondered what Monty would think of the movie they were about to make together.
Hilliard claimed his familiar spot in the corner of the yellow loveseat and propped one heel on the edge of the coffee table, crossing his ankles as he reached for his own script on the smaller table beside him, which was already full of dog-eared pages and pencil notes.
Monty got up from where he’d been sitting on one of the twin armchairs, eyes already scanning carefully over the first page.
Hilliard had seen the way Monty read a script and it was usually nothing like that; he only wanted to know the parts that were relevant to him.
But Hilliard could already see the effort Monty was putting into this exercise.
He paced the floor, turning page after page without saying a word.
Hilliard also remained silent, watching as his friend absorbed the new information with intent.
Just when Hilliard was about to reach for one of the plates he’d brought with him, Monty moved in his direction.
He plopped down on the cushion to his right and turned, landing with his knees bent over the armrest and his head on Hilliard’s lap, eyes never leaving the script in his hands.
Hilliard’s heart swelled almost painfully at the gesture.
“Do you need a pillow?” His thighs were thick enough that they created a natural sort of place for the back of Monty’s head to fall, and while he couldn’t say that he minded this arrangement in the least, he wanted to be sure.
“No, this is comfortable,” Monty said absently, turning to the next page. As if to further prove his point, he nestled his shoulders against the cushion, making himself at home.
Henrietta trotted into the room and hopped up onto Monty without pause, forcing a huff out of him like he’d been punched in the gut. She settled on his stomach, black nose tucked between the wispy hair on her paws, and Monty moved one hand to her back. All was forgiven.
Hilliard was lost as to how he should handle this moment.
He’d let his script fall to the side, his other arm stretched out along the back of the loveseat.
He didn’t dare move. As badly as he wanted to rest his hand atop Monty’s on Henrietta’s back, or comb his fingers through Monty’s dark hair, it was too special to risk ruining it.
So he simply sat and continued to watch, in awe of the man who could affect him like no other simply by being himself.