Page 56 of Loving You

Monty felt a rushing, powerful warmth in his chest.Darlin’. He liked all the other names too. Sparky would always make his ears hot and his neck warm. But it wasn’t the names themselves. It was that he was precious enough for Bronx to use them so freely. So readily. Like they were there waiting at the tip of his tongue, just for Monty.

Maybe that was foolish. Maybe he did that with everyone. But for the moment, he allowed himself to think he was special. Bronx had once called him precious, and maybe he still was.

They spent most of the drive in comfortable silence, Bronx occasionally reaching over to touch Monty, almost like he was reassuring himself that Monty was there. And Monty stole several long looks at the man he’d fallen for. He looked gorgeous—sun-soaked with flecks of silver lit up in his hair and happy laugh lines in his face.

He was the most beautiful man Monty had ever had the pleasure of knowing—and the only man whose touch would be worth remembering.

Monty was smiling to himself as Bronx turned down Beach Street and followed his GPS to the small public lot. There was pay for parking through a QR code at the entrance to the lot, so Bronx handled that while Monty carefully unpacked the supplies from the back.

Bronx had brought along two chairs with backpack straps, a cooler with a long, sturdy handle, and an umbrella. Monty had almost everything loaded in his arms by thetime Bronx returned, and the older man rolled his eyes and bustled Monty against the side of the car, removing both chairs and the umbrella as he kissed him long and slow.

“Nice try.”

“I’m not that fragile,” Monty protested.

“Yeah, well, my ego is,” Bronx fired back with a grin. He stole another quick peck, then slid both chair straps on his left arm and the umbrella on his right. “You can grab the cooler. There’s not much in there—just a little breakfast I threw together.”

Monty did his best not to give the cooler a dubious look, considering he knew Bronx wasn’t great in the kitchen. He hoped either Lucas was behind the meal or a supermarket was. Still, he’d choke down rock-hard burnt toast and tell him it was gourmet if it would make Bronx happy.

They followed a rolled-out wooden path up a small hill that crossed the short dunes that led to the water. The cooler wheels made a softka-thud, ka-thud, ka-thudon each of the planks, almost like a rhythmic melody as they made their way to the empty beach.

Bronx looked up and down, then chose a spot at the edge of the high tide line, which was still damp from the morning waves. He eased the chairs down, then reached behind him to pull his shirt off. Monty’s mouth went dry.

The man was absurdly good-looking. He was full and hairy. Monty’s fingertips knew the softness of his curves intimately, and it took all of his self-control not to pounce. Bronx looked over at him, then ducked his head.

“Staring.”

“Can’t help it,” Monty said. “I can’t get over how attractive you are.”

“I…” Bronx licked his lips. “Thank you.”

Monty grinned, pleased with that response. He knewhis words mattered. Letting go of the cooler handle, he began to unfold the chairs as Bronx dug the umbrella into the sand, and it was only a handful of minutes before the two of them were half in the shade, half in the sun with a small picnic on display.

Bronx had stopped by a bakery and picked up croissants—and they didn’t look half-bad, which was a surprise. He also had fresh chopped fruit and a carafe of juice with two plastic cocktail cups.

“I know it’s not anything fancy,” Bronx said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously as he handed one of the juice cups to Monty. “I’ve tried to be more handy in the kitchen, and I’m just…not.”

Monty took the cup, then stretched over the divide between their chairs and pressed a kiss to Bronx’s jawline. “It looks amazing. I never did adapt to the big, sugary American breakfasts, so this is perfect.”

“In French?”

“En français,” Monty corrected him. “C’est parfait.”

“Parfait,” Bronx dutifully repeated.

Monty burst into a small fit of laughter. “No, notsay. C-e-s-t. C’est,” he said, enunciating. “C’est parfait. It’s perfect.”

“En français, c’est parfait,” Bronx tried. His accent was atrocious, and Monty adored him more for it. “I’ll get it eventually.”

“I know you will. Your son speaks a little French. He told me right before he landed the plane.”

Bronx’s face lost a little color, though he didn’t look as nervous as before. “He was good, right? Kylen will lie to me if he thinks he’s protecting my feelings, but I’d like to know if it was a disaster.”

“It was anything but. It was a very smooth flight, and I’d happily go with him again,” Monty said.

“Good,” Bronx said from behind a breath. “That’s good. I want Lucas to experience everything he possibly can because I know some things are entirely out of his reach. I can let him drive the car in circles in a parking lot, but he’ll never get on the road, you know? He’ll never have a license. And I doubt anyone would let him enroll in a flight school, but he can have this with you and Kylen. I’ve spent most of my life trying to be realistic about his limitations without discouraging the things he can do, but it’s hard some days. I feel like I’m standing in his way even when I don’t mean to be.”

“Relax. First of all, you’re doing fine. And second, pilots fly mostly blind, so he’s not at any kind of disadvantage,” Monty assured him. He set his juice down and took Bronx’s hand, gently playing with his fingers. “We don’t look out the window at the sky for navigation. We use instruments to guide us where we’re going. Having a sighted guide for the landing is crucial. Your son will probably never fly alone, but most pilots will never fly alone anyway. I don’t think they’ll ever let him get a job on a commercial airline—not in our lifetime, and probably not his. But he was good. He took to it very well. You should be proud.”

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