“Did you think I’d trust you after the stunt you pulled tonight?”
Monty’s response was a miserable sort of groan.
Hilliard arched a brow at him. “You really want to be alone?”
“No,” Monty answered without hesitation. “It’s just far less embarrassing if I vomit into my own bushes.”
Hilliard gasped. “You wouldn’t dare be sick into my hydrangeas.”
“My point,” Monty replied blandly.
Hilliard chuckled. “That’s all right. I can steer you toward the azalea bush. She’s been giving me nothing but trouble this year.”
After a brief detour to the rhododendrons, Hilliard managed to get Monty inside. His house was nothing special, just a modest yellow bungalow on the edge of town with white trim around the windows and a porch that he could enjoy his flowers from. It had three bedrooms, one of which was set up as a guest room and always ready for nights such as this.
He helped Monty out of his coat and shoes for the second time that evening and went to fetch a glass of water as his guest stripped down to his underclothes and crawled into bed. When he came back, Monty was partially under the covers and nearly asleep. He set the glass on the decorative coaster at the edge of the bedside table and pulled the blankets up to Monty’s chin.
With the switch of the lamp, the room settled into darkness, save for what was coming in through the curtains. Hilliard was pulling the door shut behind him when he heard Monty’s muffled voice.
“Love you, Hilliard,” he said.
Hilliard paused with his hand still on the knob. He was as susceptible to Monty’s charm as anyone else. But he found that moments like this, when Monty’s magic was as sleepy and subdued as he was, were his most cherished. There was no playact, no pretense. Just Monty being Monty.
“I love you too, sugar,” he replied.
The latch finally clicked and he made his way down the hall to his own bedroom where he knew he could sleep soundly now that Monty was safe for the night.
Chapter 3
Monty
Monty woke up to a sharp pain behind his eyes. He was in a bed smaller than his own, but with a softer quilt on top and a fresh detergent scent that he recognized before he was even fully conscious: Hilliard. He blinked open his eyes to find himself in Hilliard’s spare bedroom. He’d slept in it so many times before that it was practically a second home.
He groaned at the pain in his head and pulled the covers over his face to block out the small thread of light shining under the window curtain. Pieces of the previous day flitted through his mind. The memory of being pulled from the musical brought about a fresh wave of grief and anger. He remembered Campbell in the hallway, Hilliard in his kitchen, and Jesse Morgan at the Pink Peacock. All of those memories swirled around, drumming up a blend of irritation, embarrassment, shame, and gratitude. He wondered if Hilliard was annoyed with him after having to go and fetch him the night before.
He heard the door click open and then felt the weight of Hilliard sitting on the bed next to him.
“I know you’re awake, doll,” the other man said softly. “Up you get.”
Monty groaned again and peeked out from under the blanket to see Hilliard holding up an aspirin and a glass of water. Reluctantly, he sat up, took the aspirin, and swallowed a healthy gulp of water.
“And now for your favorite,” Hilliard said as he held up another glass. “A prairie oyster for breakfast.”
Monty swiftly turned on his charm, braving the spike of pain that rose up at the effort. “But Hilliard,” he wheedled, “is that really necessary?”
“Montgomery.”
He heaved a sigh and took the glass. He pinched his nose and drank, tasting the egg, Worcestershire sauce, tabasco sauce, and salt and pepper, despite his efforts not to. He could feel Hilliard’s fingers tipping up the bottom of the glass, encouraging him to finish the entire thing. When he emptied it, he grimaced and handed it back. “You know what also helps? Hair of the dog.”
Hilliard took the glass and handed over the water. “I’m not sure more alcohol is the wisest choice right now.”
“You never get a hangover if you don’t stop drinking.”
“Just like you don’t feel dizzy until you get off the merry-go-round,” Hilliard said. “It may be fun while it lasts, but the ride will stop eventually.”
Monty looked up in surprise at the gravity in Hilliard’s tone. “You sore at me?”
Hilliard smiled. “Of course not. Just worried.”
