Hilliard
Friday afternoon, Hilliard was busy hanging linens out on the clothesline to dry in his tiny backyard.
“You’re stealing my light,” Monty grumbled.
Hilliard looked down to see that a shadow had formed over Monty’s bare feet and shins. He was slathered in oil and reclined in a metal garden chair, legs stretched out in front of him, head leaned back with a rolled towel behind his neck. He looked every bit the part of a cat snoozing restfully in the sun, if that cat was also a mighty Greek god basking in his own loveliness. The swimming shorts had come in handy, after all. Henrietta was asleep in the grass beside him.
“Move your chair,” Hilliard offered. “Haven’t you been exposed long enough? I do believe you’re starting to sizzle.”
Monty scoffed, eyes still closed to the harsh light of the afternoon sun. “I was here first.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Hilliard conceded, a private grin on his lips.
He bent to retrieve the next piece out of his basket. It was one of the hand towels from the kitchen. He held it by two corners and shook it just enough to uncrumple from the wet ball of fabric it had become and then snapped it out in Monty’s direction. Water droplets splattered across his bare chest and face. Monty jolted in surprise and lifted his head, cracking a wrathful eye open at Hilliard.
“And look, now you’re beginning to sweat,” Hilliard tutted before the other man could complain, gesturing to Monty with his chin as he secured the towel to the line with two wooden clothespins. “Shall I fetch you some lemonade?”
Monty sighed and dropped his head back against the makeshift pillow. “Only if you add tequila to it. I need something to numb me to all your constant fluttering around.” He waved a hand at Hilliard and the laundry and then pushed his fingers back through his slicked dark hair, making far too many of his exposed muscles flex at once.
“Are you hungry?” Hilliard asked, forcing himself to look away. They’d had a light lunch after returning home from filming that morning in preparation for the party at Edie’s. She was notorious for having the best spreads, always with some kind of fun or exotic theme, though Hilliard had only experienced it for himself a few times over the near-decade of their friendship. “I could fix us a snack.”
“Sure.”
Monty’s voice had already slipped back into that far away tone of someone who was trying very hard not to be disturbed. Hilliard left him and Henrietta to their quiet and went inside the house.
It really was a pleasant afternoon. Hilliard had opened all of the windows, letting the soft breeze make the sheer curtains dance in the living room. Soon, the scent of fresh laundry clinging to him was replaced with melty cheese and butter as he prepared some sandwiches. The crunch of toasty bread as he cut one of them in half was masked by the unmistakable sound of a car door shutting. He leaned to his left far enough to peer out the window over the sink.
He instantly recognized the young woman in his driveway as the one he’d seen sitting beside Monty that night at the bar. She was dressed smartly and on a mission toward the front door, her low heels clacking purposefully on the sidewalk. Hilliard wiped his hands and went to greet her.
“Good afternoon,” he said as he pushed the screen door open, propping it with his hip after stepping out onto the porch. “How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Kincaid. Is he here?”
Hilliard’s brows rose. “Does he know he's being looked for?”
“He should,” the young lady said brazenly. “I was meant to meet him at home, but I’ve come to understand I should find him here instead.”
By the sound of it, this wasn’t a casual visit. Hilliard turned so that his back was to the screen door and gestured for her to pass him.
“Come in and have a seat, doll. I’ll get him for you.”
After serving her–Ms. Dupree, he learned–a glass of fresh lemonade and setting a plate with the sandwiches he’d just prepared on the coffee table in front of her, he returned to where Monty was still baking.
“Montgomery,” he said sweetly. Monty grunted in response. “You’ve got a visitor.”
This finally roused him. “Who is it?”
“It’s a Ms. Dupree here to speak with you. She said you should be expecting her.”
“Shit,” Monty cursed under his breath as he scrambled to his feet. He swatted at the linens on the line that were now in his way, tearing a pillowcase down in the process. “Sorry, Hilliard. I completely forgot she was coming by. We made the plans before this…arrangement,” he explained, moving his hand between their chests to indicate both parties of said arrangement.
The sudden closeness brought with it the overwhelming perfume of Monty’s warm, sun-loosened body. He’d been shimmering with sweat long before Hilliard flicked water on him.
“That’s all right,” he said, breathy and a little unbalanced. “She’s in the living room. I set out a glass of lemonade for you.”
Monty swept by him into the house.
“Tell her I’ll be with her in just a moment,” he said, ducking around the corner of the hallway that led to the single bathroom.
