Monty
Despite their failed attempt at an adventurous experience, Monty found he had no complaints as he and Hilliard cuddled on the bed. The brown quilt that Hilliard disliked so much had been moved to the laundry hamper and they’d cleaned themselves of—well, everything. Then they had climbed back into bed together with Hilliard resting his head on Monty’s chest, an unusual arrangement for them as Hilliard was considerably taller, but Monty secretly adored it.
Hilliard had already started to doze off; Monty could tell by the heaviness of his breathing. Henrietta had apparently discovered this as well as she hopped up onto the bed next to them. She was, supposedly, not allowed on the bed, but she and Monty were working on changing that particular rule. Monty was a sucker for cuddles, wherever he could get them. He idly ran one hand through Hilliard’s honey-colored hair and laid his other hand on Henrietta’s back.
He couldn’t get their conversation from earlier out of his head, about letting everyone know about their relationship. He hated the idea of keeping Hilliard as some sort of secret. The man deserved better than that. But he also knew that Hilliard had little interest in publicity, regardless of his career. It was why he had settled comfortably in a house in the suburbs, just outside of the city center. No bus tours ever came by to point out the owner of the house and no reporters ever caught them unawares at the grocer.
Monty had spent his entire career trying to be as famous as possible. How strange that he had fallen in love with a man who stayed firmly out of the public eye. As Henrietta gave a sigh and leaned against him more fully, Monty decided that it was kind of nice to be able to relax when he was at home. Hilliard’s house was so different from his own: it was homey. And not just because of Hilliard’s cooking, or the hydrangeas that he took such good care of, or the freshly dusted surfaces. No, it was simply Hilliard’s presence that made Monty feel like he belonged.
Together, they were unlikely to throw any of the wild parties Monty used to dream about hosting. But he could get used to small dinner parties with friends, like Cal and Jesse. He had begun to look forward to home after work—drying the dishes while Hilliard washed, and then settling in for the evening with a cozy activity like puzzles or reading (Hilliard had a well-stocked bookshelf). He never used to look forward to going home in his own house. He would work late, go out and drink, go to parties—anything to stay out of the big empty mausoleum of a place.
Still, he thought, they ought to tell people about the romance blooming. They should tell it on their own terms. He just needed to find out how.
The answer came the following morning. Monty strolled into the kitchen to the smell of blueberry pancakes and the sound of what he had come to discover was Hilliard’s preferred radio station for Saturday mornings. He wrapped his arms around Hilliard’s stomach and kissed his neck.
“You spoil me,” he murmured into Hilliard’s skin.
“Don’t I know it.”
Monty grinned, knowing Hilliard could probably feel it. “Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘You deserve it, doll,’ or ‘You’re worth it, sweetheart,’ or something?”
“Why do you need me to say it? Sounds like you already know.”
Monty was silent for a long moment as a realization struck him with Hilliard’s words. Hilliard seemed to sense his change in mood because he shifted slightly and put a hand over Monty’s.
“You okay?”
“Just thinking.”
“Penny for your thoughts then?”
Monty moved his hand so he was clasping Hilliard’s hand between both of his. “I was just realizing that the only reason I know I’m worth it is because you always make me feel like I am.”
Hilliard put his spatula on the counter and turned in Monty’s arms. He cupped Monty’s cheek with his free hand. “I don’t want you to forget it, sugar.”
Monty leaned up to kiss him and Hilliard returned the kiss, making him feel seen and cherished. The sizzle of batter brought them back to the present and they pulled apart.
“What can I do to help?”
“Make the coffee?”
“Sure.”
When they sat down to eat their pancakes, Hilliard said, “Edie’s having another party tonight.”
Monty paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Is she? Did you want to go?”
“I’m not one for parties, but I know you are. I wasn’t sure if you’d like to go.”
Monty put his fork down on the plate. “It might not be a bad idea. You know the golden rule of those parties: no talk after. We could be…together there, and it wouldn’t make front page news. Even if Joan Dupree is there, she wouldn’t be able to print anything about us.”
“So we’re going?”
Monty nodded decisively. “We’re going. Do you know what the theme is?”
“Picnics. I thought I’d wear my yellow gingham.”
“Hmm. Maybe I should trot out the denim.”
