Patrick “Pax” Polo knocked against the sun-warmed door with a jolly rhythm that belied the ache in his fist.

Six in the evening, and he was already dead. His wants were simple: score this room that he’d seen for rent on a supermarket noticeboard, drop his crap on the nearest flat surface, and collapse into a bed.

One good sleep, and he’d feel normal again. Not confused that his mates of half a decade had kicked him out of the band. Not hurt and nursing an unfamiliar kick to his—admittedly overinflated—ego. Not hiding his stinging eyes behind shades.

He swung his beloved guitar off his back and settled it next to his duffel bag on a bench studding the porch. He knockity-knocked again, and a window yawned open above his head.

Steam billowed out as a guy maybe a few years younger than Pax’s twenty-three bent over the ledge. His dark hair was lathered in shampoo and somewhere behind him water rained against plastic.

Pax smoothed on a lazy smile that lanced pain across the bridge of his bruised cheekbone. The rim of his shades bumped swollen skin as he spoke. “I’ll take the room.”

“Patrick, correct?” Same melodic accent as over the phone. This must be Luca, then.

“Patrick. That’s me.” Fans and mates called him Pax, but he used his full name for official business.

“Give me a few minutes to rinse, and I’ll show you the place. Meet me at the sun chairs on the side.”

“Sun chairs? In Dunedin? You’re an optimist.”

“Sì.” Luca nodded brightly and disappeared.

Pax followed the porch around the tidy brick and shingle house, undone laces skittering over the wood as he dragged his feet. The wraparound porch widened into a deck where the house formed a sideways U. Or perhaps a J, as the house jutted close to a fence separating his (hopefully) new residence from the neighbors’.

White-framed latticed windows spat his reflection back at him, and he perched his glasses atop his hair. Ouch. A swollen bruise had swallowed the trademark freckle below his left eye. Good thing he suited shades.

Stupid Blake.

Stupid Pax for starting the fight. He was a man of music, not of muscle. Words were his weapons. Slice ’em with smiles, spirit, and song.

The scent of sweet baking wafted toward him, and piano keys clunked from somewhere upstairs, along with the lilt of murmured voices. The neighbors were home, and their windows were wide open.

Pax peered into their living room through a massive glass window. An unadorned Christmas tree stood in the front-facing window, occupying as much space as the drum kit in Serenity Free’s practice room. The tree was the same size as the one he’d bought with his bandmates yesterday.

Colors blurred, and Pax slid his shades back to his nose.

His time with the band was not over. It wasn’t. One of them would be welcomed back into Serenity Free. One of them would have their old life back. But would it be Pax or Blake?

His other three bandmates, Tim, Ted, and Tony—known by fans as the Three T’s—said they’d vote on the matter by Christmas.

Pax had three weeks to ease back into his mates’ good graces.

Blake could bash out a beat, but Pax could, too. What separated them was twofold: Pax thrived on fame, and he had known the Three T’s since their first year of university. They were bros.

Voices traveled from the upper level of the neighboring house, raised volume resembling an argument. Male and female, although the female sounded young by her whine.

“Cliff, please?”

Diagonally from where he stood on the deck, a window was open. He’d never been above eavesdropping. Besides, distracting himself with someone else’s drama? Bring it on.

“I don’t particularly like parroting old discussions.”

The dry tone caught Pax’s attention.

Pax sidled down the deck, trying to peer inside at the arguing couple. No luck. All he saw was a mustard-colored wall and refracted sunlight.

“It’s the summer holidays. I’m seventeen!”

“Exactly,” the Cliff guy said. “No need to bother with boys now. There’ll be plenty of time for heartache at university.”

“Most girls in my class are bumping uglies with their boyfriends, and I’m not even allowed to date?”

“Bumping uglies, Bianca? I take it back. Clearly you’re ready.”

Bianca choked out a reply. “You’re worse than Mum or Dad ever were.”

Pax sympathetically stiffened. His mind leaped to fill in the blanks. Tragedy had befallen their parents, and Bianca had been left in the care of her big brother, Cliff.

Cliff replied calmly, “While you live at home, you’ll forget about boys.”

“Fine, I’ll sneak out.”

Cliff laughed. “If you manage to sneak past me, you’re smart enough to dick yourself silly.”

“I will get past you.”

“You stalk the house like your shoes are on a rampage for blood. You bathe in perfume. If I don’t hear you, I’ll smell you leaving.”

Correction: Bianca had been left in the care of her big, snarky brother, Cliff.

“No wonder you have no friends, Clifford. You’re a horrible excuse for a human being.”

Yesterday, that comeback would’ve amused Pax. Today—after a fist to his face and a dismissal by his bandmates, it nagged him. Like a mosquito buzzing in his ear. Like maybe he should pay attention or . . . something.

The sliding door rumbled behind him, and his (hopefully) new roommate, Luca, emerged. He wore a tight black T-shirt and loose pants, and his slicked-back hair revealed a gentle widow’s peak. He resembled Leonardo DiCaprio, except for the dark hair. And the thick eyebrows. And the muscular body that towered a good head over Pax.

Luca side-eyed him. “Your face.”

Pax shrugged. “Just a bruise.”

“I mean, I recognize it. You’re Pax Polo. Guitarist for Serenity Free.”

Former guitarist.

Possible future guitarist.

He cocked Luca a half-grin that spliced his face with pain.

Luca prowled a few steps closer, lowering his accented voice. “Did you really fuck your drummer’s sister? Behind the stage? Between songs?”

The story grew more elaborate every time Pax heard it. Not an ounce of truth in it, but Luca didn’t need to know that. Pax flashed his pearly whites.

His delighted roommate hooked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing him inside.

Pax stepped toward the doors and paused as Cliff’s voice sounded from next door.

He had a problem where gossip was concerned. He liked to watch it, listen to it, surround himself with it.

Pax lifted a finger to his mouth to shush him, and Luca stilled.

Luca’s gaze flew to the upstairs window with a familiarity that had Pax’s brow quirking.

“Help you?” Bianca said sweetly. Too sweetly. “Sure.”

A pretty girl with sweeping chestnut hair leaned out the window, dangling a fat paper bag from a curled finger.

She didn’t even glance in their direction.

“What are you doing?” Cliff asked from somewhere in the room behind her.

“Helping you.”

“Bring it downstairs.”

Bianca released the bag and it fell with a quiet thunk. Her sweet face, blinking back tears, disappeared. She’d lost the whiny voice. “I hate that generic store-bought crap. It’s like you’re trying to forget them.”

Pax jumped off the porch. He leaned against the rib-high fence and scoured the neighbors’ yard. Glittery Christmas ornaments had burst from the paper bag over a row of ferns.

“This”—Bianca’s voice grew louder—“this is what should be on the tree.”

Cliff’s voice tightened. “Where did you find that?”

“What? You didn’t smell me climbing up to the attic this morning?”

“Bianca. . . .”

“Take it.”

“Don’t.”

“You took down all their photos,” Bianca pleaded. “I’m not asking for much. Just this one memory. Take it.”

“It’s too soon.”

“It’s been three Christmases.”

“Way too soon,” Cliff said.

“What’s wrong with you? I loved them. Miss them. Want to remember them.” Bianca sniffed. “I want you to remember them. Go downstairs and put it on top of the tree? Please?”

“No.”

Pax relaxed his grip on the fence and stepped back. He wanted to say he’d had enough eavesdropping and would now give the neighbors their privacy, but that would be a lie.

“Touch it,” Bianca demanded. “Touch it and remember. Maybe it’s magic just like they thought. Maybe it’ll melt that hunk of ice you call your heart. Take it, dammit.”

Cliff roared, and a gold object hurtled out of the window toward Pax.

Pax jerked his hand up and caught it. The impact should have jarred against his aching fingers. Instead, curious warmth zipped up his palms.

He peeled his fingers back and eyed the prize. An angel tree topper. A beautiful carved woman with intricate golden wings and eyes that seemed to follow him like she knew his penchant for vanity. Knew his mates had deemed it necessary to drop him. Knew he feared not being accepted back in the band. “They’re mates,” Pax murmured. “They’ll come around.”

Sunlight played over the angel’s face, giving the illusion that she blinked. At least, he hoped it was an illusion, or Blake had hit him harder than he thought.

Next door, the sound of retreating footsteps and the distant slam of a door echoed.

No one approached the window seeking the lost angel. Just like none of his mates had chased after him and asked him to stay.

Pax tightened his hand around the angel’s slender robe. He should take her inside for safekeeping.

Luca was gazing toward the neighbors’ house with a soft, dreamy look.

“Let me guess, you like this Bianca.”

Luca blinked and focused a boyish grin on him. “Like? Ha. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Do you know the neighbors much?” Pax asked as he entered the house.

The living room was decked out. Beanbags, a blow-up couch and a regular one, a bright green “Bug Off, 2000” poster, and a massive television with a video player and PlayStation attached. All the recent 1999 releases towered atop the TV cabinet. Final Fantasy VIII, Crash Team Racing, Need for Speed, High Stakes.

Luca sighed. “I wish I knew her more. But with the neighborhood, what’s it called”—he circled a finger, searching for the right word—“shrew! With the shrew watching over his sweet sister’s every move . . . I must be content glimpsing her on the street.”

“Or in their living room?” Pax said wryly.

“Sì!” Luca said cheerily. “I do love all that big glass.”

“A window to your soul mate.” The angel in his hand grew warm again. Was she trying to tell him something?

“È un bell’angelo.”

Pax shot a questioning look at Luca, who studied the angel curiously.

“Pretty angel,” Luca translated. “I think she sees things.”

Nothing too real, hopefully.

Pax tossed off a laugh. “Many things if she lives with the shrew.”

“I think she will be missed,” Luca said, gaze suggesting that Pax should return it.

“She was thrown out the window.”

“Such passion. The angel means much.”

Yeah, and sleep means so much to me. “Let the siblings cool off. I’ll return it tomorrow.”

Luca brightened again. “I can hide out in the tree out front. The big one with the red flowers and rough bark.”

“Pohutakawa. New Zealand’s Christmas tree.”

“It has an excellent view of their front yard. If Bianca answers the door, I’ll help you give the angel back.”

Pax shoved his shades up to his hair and contemplated Luca. He was a chirpy kind of guy. The kind who radiated romanticism. Who wouldn’t hesitate to hug a guy. Delightfully European. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

Young and naïve. The perfect age for some summer loving. “I heard the shrew say if Bianca could sneak past him, she was welcome to date.”

Luca snapped to his full height, eyes gleaming with hope. “Really?”

“Swear on it.” His head ached, exhaustion swamping him. “Now if you could show me a bed. . . .”

Luca grabbed Pax’s wrist and dragged him to the front door for his guitar and duffel bag. “Let’s pack your things into your room.”

“Perfect.”

“And start plotting.”

Pax worked up a smile. He was Pax Polo. Plotting and an unhealthy obsession with his face were his things.

He swallowed a yawn. The bed could wait.

Mayhem awaited.