“Exactly!” Miss Dupree said, bouncing in her seat. “I can run a feature on you. I can come over to your place and we can talk about you—the real you, the Montgomery Kincaid that no one gets to see. We can talk about your childhood, your family, your friends, what you like to cook, how you decorate your house, your favorite places to eat, that kind of thing.” She paused to take a drag. “If I’m honest, the fact that we found you at this hidden gem of a bar did wonders for my impression of you.”
Monty opened his mouth to politely turn her down, but then he paused to consider her offer. He hadn’t used magic throughout the entire conversation, and here these two people were, saying they liked him for it. When he thought even further, he realized that he hardly ever used his magic on Hilliard either. Was that the answer? Letting people see who he was underneath the charm?
He downed the rest of his drink and beamed at her. “I’ll do it. When do you want to talk?”
She grinned and pulled a notepad out of her purse. “How about next week?”
“Fine. I’ll?—”
“Montgomery.” Hilliard’s voice pulled his focus instantly.
Hilliard was standing at the edge of the table, looking disappointed, and Monty felt all of the encouragement he’d recently acquired melt away immediately.
Chapter 6
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.
