Page 21 of Together on Parade
“I can always bring you back for more clothes if you need them,” he said, watching from the chair in the bedroom as Monty sorted through all of his clothes. He was acting like he’d never get to see them again if they wouldn’t fit in one of the five sturdy leather suitcases open on the bedspread.
“I want to do exactly as Ezra said,” Monty muttered as he tossed one shirt behind him onto the bed and hung another back up. Then he paused and turned sharply. “And what do you mean by that? I’m taking my car. I can bring myself back.”
Hilliard’s forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure that’s the best idea? If we’re to go everywhere together, I don’t see why you need the roadster. It’ll only be a temptation for you.”
After a long, tormented pause, Monty’s shoulders drooped.
“You’re right.” Then he brightened again. “Does that mean you’ll let me drive the Cadillac?”
Hilliard chuckled. “Absolutely not.”
Monty glared at him, but it was quickly replaced with a playful grin and he swatted a hand in Hilliard’s direction dismissively.
“I’ll just keep asking,” he said in a sing-song way.
“I’ll just keep saying no,” Hilliard promised in the same tone.
Monty continued going through his extensive wardrobe, commenting on where he’d bought a certain jewel-tone shirt, or when he’d worn this striped vest for the first time, until he came across something that made him burst out laughing.
“I forgot I had these,” he said, lifting them up so Hilliard could see. It was a pair of sturdy denim pants fit for a hard day’s work. Unsurprisingly, they looked as though they’d never been worn.
“That is the most Midwestern article of clothing I have ever seen,” Hilliard drawled. “Did you steal those from a cowboy? Did you steal them off a cowboy?”
Monty said, “My aunt sent them to me,” and before Hilliard could tell him that explained everything if it was the aunt who lived in Wisconsin, Monty was unbuckling his belt and pushing his trousers off his hips.
Hilliard’s face warmed as he forced his gaze up to the ceiling, then out the window overlooking the backyard.
“I wasn’t aware I’d be getting a fashion show when I agreed to help with this.”
Hilliard peeked at the man just long enough to get a glimpse of his silky green undershorts—and the way they were pulled taut across his backside as he struggled to remove his shoes, now that he’d tangled them up in a pool of trouser fabric. He finally braced a hand on the thick post of his bed and managed to pull or kick everything off.
“Consider it a show of my appreciation,” Monty said with a very smug expression as he turned toward Hilliard, leaning himself against the post with his opposite hand and popping his hip out, striking an exaggerated pose that worked entirely too well for him. Monty knew he was attractive, but the real trouble was that he knew Hilliard thought he was attractive, too. He had to know. Why else would he do such things?
“It’s certainly a show of something,” Hilliard agreed. “Let’s see these cowboy pants before you hurt yourself.”
Monty tugged the dark denim up his legs, hips moving again in the effortless way only a dancer’s could as he tucked his shirt in, starting on the right and moving around the back to the left. He walked over to his full-length mirror as he did, stopping there to fasten the front, which Hilliard really could not bring himself to watch, even in the reflection. He focused instead on the strangely intimate sight of Monty’s sock feet.
“I think I should wear these,” Monty decided almost immediately, admiring himself. “I’ve seen you wear jeans before, haven’t I?”
“Strictly in the privacy of my own home.” He had one pair that was nearly worn through on the knees, but they were so comfortable everywhere else that he hated the thought of throwing them out. An attempt to patch them would have to be made first. “I wear them when I’m gardening, or when I do laundry.”
Monty’s face twisted in outrage. “You wash your own clothes?”
“Not all of them,” Hilliard reasoned, holding back a grin at Monty’s expression. “I send the expensive stuff out.”
“Just when you think you know a guy,” Monty lamented, shaking his head in disbelief. Then a new sense of fear seemed to overtake him. “Now, wait just a minute. Are you going to make me wash my own clothes while I’m staying with you?”
Hilliard’s brows went up as he eyed what Monty had put on, finally allowing himself to admire the way they fit his waist and thighs. “Well, now that I know you have the pants for it…”
Monty let out a short cry of outrage and immediately began taking them off. Hilliard laughed, knowing all too well that he would be happy to wash Monty’s unmentionables for him. This plan was unexpected, to say the least, but the magic in his heart was burning bright.
Hours later, just as the sun was setting over the hills in the distance, Hilliard carried a tray out onto the front porch and set it between the two rocking chairs he’d whitewashed himself. Henrietta had tired herself out exploring the yard and was asleep by Monty’s feet.
He could’ve served something more elaborate to welcome his guest–when his sister came to stay for a month two years earlier, he’d prepared an entire five-course meal for her first night. But he decided that comfort food was what they both needed instead. Hilliard prepared a plate full of pimento cheese sandwiches just the way he’d learned from his grandmother and served them with two glasses of sweet iced tea. There was half a coconut cake left in the refrigerator for dessert.
It was a warm night, perfect for dining outside. The view from his porch was nothing spectacular, mostly just the other houses on his street, but the garden was in its full summer splendor. Blue and purple hydrangeas bloomed right in front of their feet. The gardenias preferred the full sun around the corner, but their delicate perfume still wafted on the air enough to reach them. The beds were packed with colorful annuals that he’d planted several months earlier. It was the garden he’d always dreamed about having someday.
“It’s so quiet here,” Monty said, cutting through the silence with a mouthful of sandwich.
