Chapter 1
Monty
It was half past noon on a Monday and Montgomery Kincaid was plastered.
When people thought of movie stars, they imagined glamorous lives: dwelling in gorgeous mansions, sipping cocktails at any hour, and traveling around the world. Monty had recently returned home from a tour. But it hadn’t been a jetsetting adventure—just a press circuit to promote his newest film, Broadway, Ahoy!—and it had been as exhausting as it had been exciting.
He did live in what many would consider a stately residence, but it was sprawling and way too big for him. Despite having gilded banisters, velvet curtains, marble columns, and gleaming floors, it felt empty. Monty hoped someday he’d be important and popular enough to throw the types of lavish parties that stars like Edith Haywood threw, the kind everyone wanted to be invited to. He’d fill his house with music and laughter. Then maybe it would feel like a home.
And he wasn’t exactly sipping a cocktail; he was grieving. He had just downed two large servings of rye and was working on a third. With his feet propped on the coffee table in front of his low velvet sofa, he raised his glass. “To lost opportunities and broken dreams.” He took a pull of his drink. “And to fucking Cal Campbell. Taking movies he doesn’t need and doesn’t even want.”
It had been a disappointing morning, to say the least.
Beside his feet, a script taunted him. It was an innocent looking script, but it was the wrong one. It wasn’t the one he wanted and needed, the one that would finally pull him out of B musicals and into high-production films. It wasn’t the script that was going to make him a true movie star. No, that script had been given to Cal Campbell, a high ranking actor at Powell Productions and a box office darling—someone who didn’t need a big break like Monty did.
The script on the coffee table was titled Together on Parade and it was a holiday flick, a comedy. Monty had never made a comedy. He was a musical actor with a talent for dancing and singing, a pretty face, and—best of all—the kind of magic that made him instantly charming. It was a perfect type of magic to have for a musical film. He could give a dazzling smile as he danced or sang while his charm clicked on and his magic blazed bright. He used his magic in all his pictures. He used it so much, in fact, that he barely had to consciously turn it on anymore.
Everyone had their own particular brand of magic, and Monty was convinced that his was tailor-made to his needs and ambitions. Back home, most folks used their magic for the kind of mundane, everyday tasks that he hated. His mom used magic in her sewing to make every piece she patched look brand new. His ma worked as an accountant, using her magic to keep the numbers in check. There was magic used in baking bread, growing a garden, or adding warmth to a home. It was all so awfully boring.
Monty had left Wisconsin three years ago with a small suitcase and a big dream. In Hollywood, magic was used to make a tuxedo fit perfectly, to capture the attention of an audience, or add depth to a singing voice so listeners wept at the beauty of it. It was the sort of place where Monty and his magic felt right at home. He snagged a five year contract with Powell Productions and had steadily plugged along in light, fluffy pictures with low budgets and low quality. They were a stepping stone toward what he wanted, a means to an end.
Only now, that end had drifted farther from his grasp than he could have imagined. He took another pull of his drink, feeling sulky.
Nothing he did was enough. He spent three years being a consistent employee who worked hard on his assignments. He was never late to set, always knew his lines, and hadn’t once spilled coffee on a costume.
He’d gone on tour with one of the biggest producers at Powell, Ezra Allen, and tried to charm them as much as he could. He’d found the perfect co-star for the big splashy musical he so desperately wanted. The kid had even been signed on after Monty’s recommendation. He was in the musical. But Monty wasn’t. Despite everything, he hadn’t done enough—or been enough—for his big break.
Memories from that morning blurred in his mind as he idly swirled his drink: the casting office giving him the wrong script, Ezra stating that the change would do him good when Monty had confronted them in their office, and, finally, Cal fucking Campbell—Powell’s golden boy—using his magic to calm Monty down. That had been the salt in the wound.
Cal admitted he didn’t want to be in the musical, and even invited Monty to join him and his new co-star at the Pink Peacock for dinner. He couldn’t have been more insulting if he tried.
Monty finished his drink and sank deeper into the couch cushions, cradling the glass in his lap. He wanted another but didn’t feel like drumming up the energy to make it. Instead, he closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the alcohol snaking its way through his anger and numbing it, just enough. He felt like crying, but that seemed a little too pathetic, crying alone in his big empty house.
The emotional rollercoaster of the past couple of hours began to take its toll and he allowed himself to drift into the fatigue. Maybe if he napped he’d have enough energy to make another drink. Maybe a fourth drink would be what it took to ease the pain of disappointment.
Monty woke to fingers combing through his hair and he blinked his eyes open. Hilliard Burke was perched on the arm of the sofa, leaning over him.
“Looks like you started having fun without me,” he teased, his thick Southern accent honeying Monty’s senses.
Monty was more surprised by the early evening light in the windows than he was by Hilliard’s presence. His friend was the only one who had a spare key to the house.
“Guess you heard the news.”
“Sure did.” Hilliard reached across him and plucked the glass from where it still rested in Monty’s hand. He sniffed it and set it aside. “We’re cast in a movie together. Won’t that be a treat?”
“It’s not what I wanted,” Monty said mulishly, avoiding answering Hilliard’s question.
“I know, sugar,” Hilliard said gently.
“It was going to be my big chance,” Monty whispered. Now that Hilliard was there, he could feel the tears threatening to fall.
Hilliard slid off his perch and onto the couch cushion next to him, pulling him close. Monty wrapped his arms around the other man’s chest and gave in, crying into Hilliard’s shoulder. The other man didn’t rush him, merely brushing his fingers lightly through Monty’s dark hair and murmuring words of comfort.
Hilliard didn’t have Campbell’s magical calm and Monty was immensely grateful for it. His magic came from his heart. It was the type of magic that meant he always knew when Monty needed him; always knew how to provide comfort and encouragement. Everyone he met was his friend. Monty didn’t know a single person at Powell who didn’t adore Hilliard Burke.
He finally pulled away. “I haven’t even looked at the script,” he admitted.
“It’s a good one,” Hilliard said. “A comedy.”
