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.
Chapter 11
Monty
Monty was almost annoyed by how much he liked the script. Every other movie he’d been in had boasted a handful of clever lines and a bunch of songs, usually unconnected to the plot. Like many studios, Powell used the B musicals to test out new talent, so Monty’s movies typically had a ton of assorted acts—Vaudevillians, circus performers, comedians, opera singers, dancers of every variety, jugglers, jazz bands, and balladeers. But this was different. The script was strong, with incredible banter and memorable one-liners. There was a cast of colorful characters, sure, but Monty’s character was undeniably front and center. If he didn’t have what it took to pull it off, the picture would fail.
