Chapter 26
Hilliard
The days following their meeting with Ezra passed surprisingly fast. By the middle of their final week of filming, Hilliard had seen the inside of a recording booth more than he’d seen the sun.
They needed voiceover audio for the backlot scenes shot from a distance and several of the action moments.
Fortunately, he found the work enjoyable.
It wasn’t something he’d done a lot of playing minor roles.
The challenge came afterward, when he wanted nothing more than to go home and find the easy companionship he’d grown accustomed to with Monty.
Instead, the closer they’d gotten to the end of filming, the more irritable his friend had become.
He was extra sarcastic and snippy with his words.
Hilliard worried Monty would become distant next, choosing to sit in a chair rather than sharing the sofa or returning to the guest room instead of sleeping in Hilliard’s bed for their last few nights together.
They’d been intimate, but Hilliard couldn’t help but notice how each time felt a little frantic; a little frightened.
It was as though Monty couldn’t focus on the special moments they did share because he was too preoccupied thinking about the ones they wouldn’t get once he left.
He’d even said as much one night, apologizing for his lack of focus. Hilliard assured him it was all right.
Though, despite all of Hilliard’s efforts to be supportive and encouraging, it only seemed to make things worse.
Monty was hurting. He didn’t want to talk about life “going back to normal.” He avoided the topic whenever possible.
At first, Hilliard thought it was because Monty was scared that he’d return to his old ways, or that he wouldn’t be taken care of any more once he left.
But he could only ignore what the magic in his own vulnerable heart was telling him for so long.
So that night after Monty fell asleep in his arms, Hilliard allowed himself to feel.
He searched for the pain. It was there, but only in the way a box is wrapped in thin paper to dress the present underneath.
And beneath the pain, there was love. Strong, reaching, desperate affection that pierced Hilliard like an arrow.
Hilliard knew Monty loved him. But to feel it in such a big way nearly brought him to tears there in the dark.
It was undeniable–his dearest friend loved him as more than what Joan Dupree had written in her article.
Loved him enough for brunch dates, and kissing in public, and there was only one thing to do.
He just had to decide the best way to do it.
* * *
“I received a letter from home,” Hilliard said as casually as he could, using his toes to keep his chair rocking in a slow, steady rhythm.
It was Thursday evening; possibly one of the most somber Hilliard could recall.
Director Chen and the studio were finished with them two days earlier than they’d anticipated.
News like that called for pimento cheese sandwiches and sweet iced tea on the porch.
“Oh?” Monty asked. He’d been staring detachedly into the middle distance for nearly half an hour as they ate. “My folks usually only write to tell me about marriages, births, and deaths,” he grumbled.
“It seems word about our situation has finally reached Momma.”
That got Monty’s attention. “Our situation?”
Hilliard tilted his head sideways toward the house before taking a sip of tea.
Monty grunted his understanding, expression falling back into something far too dejected for Hilliard’s heart to handle.
“Are you going to tell her about your success in reorienting poor Monty Kincaid? How you rescued him like an injured bird and nursed him back to health, ready to be set free again?”
Hilliard’s brows went up at the comparison. It was more raw and emotional than anything Monty had said for days. A crack in the wall he’d put up the moment they left Ezra’s office.
“Augusta Burke is a sixty-seven-year-old woman from South Carolina. I cannot simply confirm that I’ve been living with another man for the past two months, for any reason, without her making grand assumptions,” Hilliard explained wearily.
“She’ll either pester me about whether or not I can afford to live alone and begin asking me to move back home… ” he said with the shadow of a grimace.
“Or?” Monty prompted.
“Or,” Hilliard echoed after a pause, “she will ask why I’m cohabitating and breaking her poor Southern heart.”
Monty scoffed. “Is she truly so old-fashioned?”
“Did I mention she’s an old woman from South Carolina?
” Hilliard shook his head and gazed out across the lawn, his eyes pausing on each brilliant bloom.
“I broke her heart when I told her I didn’t want to become a doctor like her and my sisters.
I broke her heart when I moved to Los Angeles.
I broke her heart when I told her I wasn’t going to marry Wesley, though I think that was mostly because she’d already started planning our springtime wedding. ”
Monty was quiet for a long moment. Then he abandoned his chair to stand at the edge of the porch instead, shoulder propped against one of the thick white roof posts, hands shoved in his pockets.
“I suppose she’ll be relieved when you tell her it’s only for a couple more days,” he said into the calm of the evening.
Hilliard studied his slumped posture. He considered the melancholy in the tone of Monty’s reply. He reflected on how Monty’s grumpy mood had shown itself most in the moments that surrounded any reminder of his impending departure. He slowed his chair to a stop and took a steadying breath.
“It would be better for both of us if I told her our intentions are virtuous,” he tried with careful levity. “Only that our actions were made a little premature due to very important circumstances beyond our control.”
“That makes it sound like I knocked you up or something,” Monty said dryly. “I doubt that’s any improvement.”
Hilliard grinned at the prickly reply. He pushed himself to his feet and slowly walked the few steps to where Monty was. His hand found the shorter man’s popped hip and he rubbed it up and down a few times, setting his chin on Monty’s shoulder.
“I was thinking we could start a little slower than children,” he said quietly. “Perhaps a true courtship first. I may not be as bad as Momma, but I do hope to get married someday.”
The tension in Monty’s body was practically radiating off of him; shoulders tight, spine rigid, jaw set. It was a striking position, and Hilliard braced himself for the sardonic blow of a comeback he knew would follow.
“Don’t tease me,” Monty whispered pitifully.
Hilliard drew back as though he’d actually been struck. He reached around for Monty’s other hip, turning him so that his back was against the post. Monty swallowed hard and kept his eyes turned down and away, but Hilliard could still see how they caught the setting sunlight with gathering tears.
“Montgomery,” Hilliard sighed. He cupped the man’s face in his hands but didn’t force any movement. “Would you look at me, please?”
Monty’s eyes flicked up once, away again, and then remained where Hilliard wanted them. Hilliard pressed his lips together and swept his thumbs over Monty’s newly damp cheeks.
“You are the most stubborn, determined man I have ever known. When you get an idea in your head, there’s not a soul alive who could keep you from getting what you want. You’re a charmer, and a flirt, and capital-T trouble, and I am so in love with you that I can hardly stand it sometimes.”
To Hilliard’s relief, Monty snorted out a wet laugh, forcing more tears to streak down his face. Hilliard caught those with his thumbs, too.
“But for the life of me,” he continued, “I cannot understand why you would rather spend our perfectly good evening together moping around instead of telling me what it is that you want.”
Monty leaned his head back far enough for it to rest against the post. Hilliard moved his hands to Monty’s hips, giving him time to pull himself together before he gave his answer.
“You didn’t ask me to stay,” he said finally with a fragile voice. “I wanted you to ask me to stay, and you didn’t.”
Hilliard’s magic twisted in his chest, tearing painfully at his heart over the confession.
“That’s because I know that no matter where you rest your head at night, be it your home or mine, it doesn’t change the way I feel about you. My heart is yours regardless.”
Monty shook his head, dark brows pinching briefly as he said, “My place is not a home. It’s too large, and too empty. Just a house where I keep my things.” He pulled one hand from his trouser pocket and waved it in a sweeping gesture. “This is a home.”
Hilliard welcomed the surge of pride he felt at the words. He’d worked hard for years to achieve exactly that: a warm, comfortable, inviting place where all of the people he cared about wanted to spend time. He’d never imagined it would play a role in his romantic endeavors.
With a grin, he leaned forward and pressed a soft, short kiss to Monty’s pouty lips.
“Then I guess we’d better make it your home, too.”
Monty stared at him, searching Hilliard’s eyes rapidly.
It only lasted a few seconds before the words seemed to fully connect.
His face crumpled, and then he threw his arms around Hilliard’s neck, squeezing him so tight that Hilliard was afraid he might lose his balance and send them both toppling off the porch.
He managed a chuckle and braced one hand on the post, wrapping his other arm around Monty’s back to return the embrace.
“Love you, Hilliard,” Monty mumbled.
“I love you too, sugar,” Hilliard replied. “I always have.”
Monty sniffed back his tears. “Even when I’m trouble?”
“No matter what,” Hilliard soothed, rubbing his back.
They hugged on the porch until the street lamps came on.
Monty collected the remnants of their meal to carry inside and barred Hilliard from the kitchen.
He instructed him to go read while he took care of the dishes.
It took twice as long as it should have, but Monty looked proud of himself when he finally joined Hilliard on the sofa, so Hilliard only smiled.
“I’ll contact the real estate agent who helped me find my house in the morning,” Monty said. “I want to list it as soon as possible.”
“There’s no rush, you know. You can take all the time you need.”
Monty went on as though he hadn’t heard him.
“She can advise me on leaving it furnished or having an estate sale to get rid of everything I don’t want. I think if I sell some of my clothes, I’ll be able to fit them in the closets here. I have a few pieces of art I’d like to keep, but–”
“Montgomery,” Hilliard cut in gently. “Slow down. Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to. Don’t worry about it tonight.”
Monty let out a slow exhale and nodded.
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
A grin tugged at the corners of Monty’s lips, warming Hilliard through. It didn’t last long. As he gazed at Hilliard, a familiar expression overtook him, grin replaced with a roguish smirk. He captured Hilliard in a kiss, one hand on the back of his neck.
“I won’t be distracted tonight,” he said against Hilliard’s lips.
“I know,” Hilliard breathed.
They remained on the sofa for a while, necking like they were a decade younger than they actually were, stealing every second they had before curfew forced them apart.
But aside from his mother’s letter of reproval awaiting a reply, there was nobody trying to stop them.
So they turned out the lights and crept to the bedroom–their bedroom–and made love like they had all the time in the world.