Chapter 18
Hilliard
“You look nice.”
Hilliard looked up from putting the perfect loop in his tie to find Monty propped against one shoulder in the bathroom doorway, hand in his pocket. He was in all black with a shimmery gold and white pocket square.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Hilliard murmured, playfully affronted.
The theme for the fundraiser dinner was A Night Amongst the Stars, another excuse for everyone to dress their best in shades of black and gold. Hilliard had on a gold silk double-breasted waistcoat under his white jacket and tie to match.
Monty was still studying him in the mirror.
“Do you usually wear makeup to these events?”
Hilliard had used a fingertip to swipe gold powder across his eyelids too, along with a dusting of subtle pink rouge on his cheeks. He hadn’t decided what to do with his lips yet.
“Only when I’m facing the public,” Hilliard told him. “The parties I usually go to are with people who already know what I look like with or without, and movie premieres are too dark for anyone to see me anyhow.”
“I never noticed.” Monty said this in a soft way that made Hilliard suddenly feel very, very seen. His skin tingled at the attention. “I think there’s only one thing missing.”
Hilliard’s forehead wrinkled as he glanced down at himself, trying to figure out what he could possibly mean. He’d already put on his nicest pair of shiny shoes, his gold wristwatch, and even his favorite sweet cologne for good measure.
“What did I forget?”
Monty pushed away from the doorjamb and took a step forward, revealing the hand that had been hiding somewhere behind him. He had a small bundle of white and yellow flowers tied up with a gold ribbon and bow.
Daisies. His favorite.
“May I?” Monty asked.
Hilliard found that he was too surprised to speak, so instead he nodded and watched as Monty carefully pinned the boutonniere to the left lapel of his jacket. The flowers looked fresh and lovely.
“When did you get this?”
Hilliard had been with him all day, first during their morning of filming and a short interview for the newspaper, and then as they ran a few errands before returning home to prepare for the event. Certainly he would’ve noticed Monty picking it up at some point.
“Don’t worry about it,” Monty said. “Do you like it?”
Hilliard realized then that Monty looked a little worried about the answer to that question.
“Of course I do.” Hilliard looked at his reflection, brushing a few fingertips just beneath the flowers as he admired them. “Thank you. I’m sorry I haven’t got anything to give you. I wish I had known–”
“You can thank me by helping me get through tonight in one piece,” Monty said, sounding more serious than Hilliard had expected.
It was the first truly public event Monty was attending since their arrangement began and he’d been making an effort to clean up his act.
The seats were $100 each, beckoning only the wealthiest and most prominent of guests.
He’d already heard that the governor would be in attendance, as well as several other politicians, famous musicians, sports players, and CEOs.
“You’re going to do just fine,” Hilliard soothed, giving both of Monty’s shoulders a squeeze before letting his hands trail down to his wrists and circling them with his fingers.
“Have one nice, strong drink and then switch to water. Keep your boldest opinions to yourself in conversation. Be polite and smile. You know how this works.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Monty said with the air of a petulant youth. “I know.”
Hilliard smiled and let go of his wrists.
“Now get out so I can finish putting my face on before the car arrives.”
Monty snorted out a laugh but did as he was told.
Hilliard picked the tube of lipstick only slightly darker than his natural shade and applied it with care. As he stood back from the mirror and blotted his lips with a folded tissue, his attention fell to the cluster of daisies he was wearing.
Monty had implied that they were meant to be a thank you for helping him get through the evening.
His first thought was, unfortunately, that the night hadn’t even begun.
Anything could happen. He believed in Monty, but he also knew that having a temper and a wild streak weren’t things that could be remedied into perfection after only a few weeks.
It would take time, perhaps even a lifetime, to learn how to manage them.
His second thought arrived with a fluttering in his stomach.
Monty had bought him flowers.
And not just a bouquet to set on the dining room table for the two of them to enjoy during meals, but one for him to wear out that everyone would see.
It wasn’t all that unusual for Hilliard to find an excuse to wear a boutonniere, but he’d never been given one by someone else.
He’d even bought his own for senior promenade because he wanted to make sure that it matched the rest of his outfit.
His high school beau hadn’t seemed to mind all that much.
Hilliard pressed a hand to his unsteady stomach and sighed out a deep breath. It ended in a cheek-aching grin as his magic lit up in his heart.
Monty had bought him flowers.
* * *
The night was everything Hilliard expected it to be.
Lots of shaking hands and posing for photographs, making small talk over the band and sipping cocktails until everyone was seated for dinner.
The Powells shared the stage at the front of the room to offer their most sincere gratitude for everyone’s support in such an important cause.
The only surprise came when Hilliard discovered that he and Monty were not placed at the same table.
They weren’t even close. Monty was on the other side of the ballroom, his chair situated so that Hilliard could only recognize him by the set of his shoulders and the pattern of dark hair at the nape of his neck.
There was one tiny curl on the right side that refused to be tamed when his haircut started to grow out like it was then.
It was a private disappointment every time the stylist at the studio noticed and trimmed it away.
Hilliard realized how bothered he was by the seating arrangement when he found himself silently scrutinizing the food on his plate rather than joining in the conversation.
He didn’t really think the wine sauce over his steak was too bitter.
It was just easier than listening to a baseball player go on about how well his team’s season was going when his real interest was six tables away.
He reached for his water and took a sip, clearing his thoughts as best he could.
Several minutes later, the woman a few seats down from him said, “Mr. Burke, I saw your interview in The Stargazer.” She was someone important in the fashion industry, but he couldn’t recall her name. “Truly thought provoking.”
“Oh, thank you,” Hilliard said with a genuine smile. “That was really Mr. Kincaid’s interview. I was just there at the time.” He hadn’t read the article yet, and honestly hadn’t planned to. He’d all but forgotten about it.
“We really should focus more on such topics as a society,” the woman pressed. “Platonic relationships are something to be commended. We can all benefit from such arrangements.”
“I believe the idea is impossible without some sort of inclination,” the person sitting next to her argued. With that tone, they had to be a politician, or maybe an attorney. “I have many friends and I wouldn’t share a home with any of them, even if you paid me to do it.”
“Nobody said you have to live together,” the fashion mogul retorted. “But some do. Isn’t that right, Mr. Burke?”
Hilliard blinked a few times when the attention of the table landed back on him. The words platonic relationship were still slamming around in his brain.
“Our arrangement is a little different. Mr. Kincaid and I are friends, yes, but we also work together. It’s more of a…um…” His pulse picked up as he struggled to find the right words to explain.
“A mutual partnership where you both benefit from being in one another’s life,” the woman finished for him, nodding. “Just as I said.”
“You make it sound so uncomplicated,” the older man beside Hilliard put in. “I’ve been divorced three times.” A frown doubled the wrinkles on his face.
“Maybe you should give it a try,” the woman told him.
“I’m not too sure my current spouse would be keen on that idea,” he said with a gruff chuckle.
A polite laugh lifted from the rest of the table, as well, and then the conversation mercifully moved on to something else.
Hilliard cut his eyes to where Monty was still sitting. Had he read the article? Was his takeaway something similar? Did everyone think they were something more than just friends?
Were they more?
Monty had always made passes at him in that puckish sort of way, just like he did with everyone else.
It was the kind of flirting that held no weight unless the other person responded with interest. Most of the time he was more subtle about it, but there had been other times when Monty flat out asked to take him to bed.
Now that he thought about it, that didn’t feel very platonic. And Hilliard didn’t want to turn him down. He wanted to say yes, yes, yes until Monty knew exactly what kind of love Hilliard felt for him.
And that was the problem. The thought of breaking down that barrier between them and getting what he wanted more than anything also brought with it the gut-wrenching fear that Monty would see him as just another warm body or occasional bedroom partner.
The fear that he would wake up the next morning and have to pretend that what they’d shared didn’t mean everything to him because Monty didn’t feel the same.
A hand on his shoulder made him jump.
“Whoa there,” Monty said, also surprised.
“I’m sorry.” Hilliard turned in his chair to look up at him, as much as he could without pressing his knees against the person next to him. “I saw you were still at your own table not two seconds ago.”
“I came to find you.” Monty leaned closer and whispered, “If I have to listen to one more word about the oil industry, I’m going to stab someone with a fork.”
“Oh, that won’t do.”
Hilliard put his napkin on his plate. As he made to stand, time slowed infinitesimally as Monty pulled out his chair and offered his arm. Hilliard’s magic swelled as he hooked his hand around the crook of Monty’s elbow and was led away in the direction of the bar.
“I only had one drink earlier, like you said,” Monty told him. “I think I’ve earned one more.”
“Yes, I think you have,” Hilliard agreed with a single, satisfied nod.
Monty ordered them both a French 75. The bartender poured his shaken blend of gin, lemon juice, and sugar into a flute before topping it with champagne–the perfect golden color to match the evening.
After wandering by the silent auction tables to see how high the bid was on a poster for Monty’s latest film that he and his co-star had signed, they found a relatively quiet place to sit on an upholstered bench together, closer than was strictly necessary given the length, but neither of them moved away.
“Was your table conversation as horrible as mine was?” Monty asked.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Hilliard said, crossing one knee over the other. “Someone inquired about your interview in The Stargazer. Apparently Ms. Dupree is very good at her job.”
“How so?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Hilliard hedged, now that he had Monty’s full attention. “But it sounds like you’ve been depicted in a way that is very inspiring to others.”
Monty made a face. “Inspiring?”
“It seems that we’re setting the example of what it looks like to share domesticity with a friend, rather than with a romantic partner.”
Monty was quiet as he seemed to give this some thought.
“Huh,” he said finally. “Must’ve been the wrong guy. I’m not sure I’ve ever set a good example of anything before.”
Hilliard smacked him gently with the back of his hand. They exchanged a grin.
“I take it you haven’t read it yet either, then?”
Monty shook his head. “I’ll have to pick up a copy tomorrow. We can read it together over brunch.”
It was Hilliard’s turn to make a face. “Brunch?”
He had ingredients to make the usual eggs, bacon, and toast in the morning, but if he’d known Monty wanted something more substantial, he could’ve added a few things to the basket during their shopping trip that afternoon. He was just about to tell him as much when Monty spoke first.
“Sure,” he said easily. “I didn’t think you would want to bother with cooking in between this event and the premiere tomorrow. I’ll take you out. My treat.”
The admonition died on Hilliard’s tongue.
Monty was skilled at stifling criticism with his suave magic, so Hilliard was used to being cut off before giving a gentle scolding.
But this was different. Monty wasn’t offering some halfhearted excuse or cocky smile.
Instead, he sounded genuine, almost routine about his offer, as though he’d actually been thinking about doing this rather than coming up with it on the spot to save himself.
But even more noticeable was the lack of influence in the air between them. Monty wasn’t using his magic.
“That would be nice,” Hilliard agreed softly.
Monty’s face lit up.
“Does that mean you’ll let me drive the Cadillac?”
Hilliard put on a sly grin of his own as he lifted his glass to his lips.
“No.”