Monty’s brows pinched, but otherwise he stood still, letting Hilliard clean him up. “You never played in the snow as a kid?”
“Honey, I’ve only seen snow once in my life.” Growing up where he had, they were lucky to be able to wear a cute sweater around the winter holidays, let alone warm scarves or knit hats.
“You never threw a snowball?” Monty sounded personally offended by the notion. Hilliard refused to meet Monty’s eyes at such an intimate distance, but even still, he could feel the weight of them as Monty searched his face. “Never made a snowperson with your own clothes and rocks for eyes?” He held his arms wide, fingers splayed. “And sticks for hands?”
“Never,” Hilliard told him with a hint of regret. The thought of a young Montgomery Kincaid doing all of those things warmed his heart.
“That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever told me.”
These were the last words Hilliard heard before Monty grabbed his coat lapels and pulled.
Hilliard gasped sharply and attempted to put his arms out to catch himself, but he still landed mostly on top of Monty against the snowbank behind him, a plume of snow lifting around them.
“Montgomery!” Hilliard yelped, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. Monty was cackling beneath him, his lithe dancer’s figure seemingly unharmed after being squashed by Hilliard’s larger one. “What are you doing?” he hissed.
Monty answered by grabbing a handful of the wet, sudsy snow and rubbing it into Hilliard’s hair. Hilliard squawked in protest and rolled away, plopping onto his rear end. In a surge of playfulness, he grabbed some snow of his own and threw it at the offender beside him. Monty turned his head in time for the sad excuse of a snowball to hit the side of his face. This dissolved into both of them smashing cupped handfuls of snow into each other’s clothes until they were breathless from equal parts laughing and tussling.
“Nothing but trouble,” Hilliard said under his breath, unable to hide his smile.
“You like it,” Monty said, proud as punch as he ran fingers through his wet hair, combing it back into place.
The truth of that statement ripped through Hilliard like an arrow.
“You’re lucky.”
They looked up to find Director Chen standing over them.
“Lucky?” Monty asked her as he sat up. His thigh pressed against Hilliard’s leg like that’s exactly where he wanted it to be.
“They almost built the form for that snowbank out of scrap lumber from the set shop,” she explained. “I told them to use sand instead.” Her mouth twitched in what might’ve been the hint of a smile. “Get up and dry off. We’re rolling on the next setup in ten.”
Monty was on his feet in seconds, hand stretched out. “Sorry I surprised you,” he said as he pulled Hilliard up, too.
“That’s all right.” Hilliard patted his hands over his coat. He could feel all the places the wet snow had soaked through to his clothes.
“Someday I’ll make it up to you.” Monty unwrapped his scarf and shook it out. “I’ll bring you home with me and you can see what a Midwestern Christmas is like.”
Hilliard froze. Monty wanted to take him home? Introduce him to his family?
“There’s only one catch, though.”
“Oh?” Hilliard asked cautiously, his magic bright as he warred between wishful thinking and trying to be realistic about such an offer.
“You’ll have to wear denim.”
Chapter 17
Monty
Monty ran his finger around the inside of his collar. They’d been filming on the backlot all week and the mild California summer was beginning to get to him. It was poor luck that he had to pretend that it was winter in New England. A makeup assistant dabbed a handkerchief lightly around his forehead so he wouldn’t smudge his makeup trying to do that himself.
“Right,” Director Chen said, walking up to him and sending the makeup assistant scuttling away. “Let’s run it from the top. Kincaid, I want a little more agitation from you.”
“Okay,” Monty said, shaking out his shoulders.
“But not too much. You’re doing great. Just a touch more.”
Monty tried to bat down the feeling of pride that welled up. He’d learned that his director did not hand out compliments lightly.
