Pax had his merry way with the neighbors’ bell, continuing to ring it in time to “Jingle Bells.” Buttercup breezed out of the house and gave him a sweet smile on her way to Luca, who sat in his car, trying fruitlessly to start it. Sounded like a dead battery.

This evening would be great.

He dinged the bell harder.

It would be.

It was a warm summer evening and a cloudless sky stretched over the city. All he had to do was keep Cliff occupied and carve out an opportunity to chat with the Three T’s. The song he’d scribbled out and handed to Cliff this afternoon could double as an apology to the guys.

Maybe after a sorry, they’d include him in their texts again. Reply to the ones he’d sent.

He didn’t think what happened warranted an apology, but he hadn’t scrummed up the courage to tell the Three T’s the truth about his fight with Blake, so he understood where they were coming from.

He dinged the bell as hard as he could.

Cliff sauntered to the door and Pax lost his rhythm. He cast aside the chain and blinked in the Count Rugen costume. Cliff had grown out his scruff and shaved it to fit the character. With tight leggings and black boots, he looked . . . looked . . .

“Perfect,” Pax said, coughing the husky frog out of his throat.

Pax tapped the “Jingle Bells” beat on the hilt of his fake sword. “Would’ve been a pity not to show off that fitting costume.”

Pax eyed him again, then reached up and straightened the dark wig. Cliff’s soft breath tickled the inside of his wrist. “Better. I wrote your song, and now you have to do everything I say.”

“I’m looking forward to being your puppet tonight,” Cliff said aridly.

Pax tossed out a winsome smile. “How about you’re my guitar, and I’m equally looking forward to strumming your strings?”

A laugh. “May want to rethink the analogy, Apollo.” Cliff stepped over the threshold and shut the door behind him. “If I were your guitar, you wouldn’t know how to live without me. You’d whip me out every night and play me hard.”

Pax curled a tight hand around his hilt.

“Why, if I were your guitar,” Cliff continued, pausing as he passed Pax, “you’d damn well be in love with me.”

“Puppet! Don’t like those dolls a bit.”

Cliff hoofed toward his car. “Let’s get this date over. Meet you there in an hour.”

Pax followed Cliff up the path with an unusually jerky step. “Did you just say date?”

Cliff held the gate open, eyes pegged ahead, where the Man in Black waited with Buttercup between a rusty mint van and Cliff’s sleek silver Mercedes. “What else is it?”

Luca and Bianca. Date. Of course.

Pax strode out to the sidewalk and Cliff followed, shutting the gate behind them.

“How many does your car fit?” Luca called out to Cliff with a hopeful smile.

Cliff unlocked his Mercedes remotely while death-glaring Luca and then Pax. As if Pax had designed this snag on purpose. He wished he could take credit.

Pax winked at Cliff and opened the passenger door. “Looks like we’re all going with you.”

The four of them had snapped on their belts (a mission, as Pax and Cliff had to remove swords), when Henry jogged out of his house toward the car wearing a mustard velvet jacket.

“Drive, hurry,” Luca said from the back.

Henry’s loafers slapped against the concrete and Pax stuck his head out the window. “I said to meet us there.”

Henry slowed as he approached and opened the back door. “This is better than driving myself.” Pax inwardly groaned. Henry climbed over Luca and planted himself in the middle seat, snug against Buttercup. “You know,” he said slickly. “I’m all about the environment.”

Cliff stared hard at his rearview mirror, mouth pressed into a dangerously thin line. He cast Pax a solemn look that said he wasn’t letting either boy out of his sight the entire evening. Pax would need to bring his A game to keep Cliff distracted.

Cliff peeled the car out of park.

From the back, Henry let out an enraged huff. “Why are you all in costume?”

After a thirty-minute drive along the coast, weaving through the steep, narrow streets of Dunedin peninsula, they arrived at Larnach castle. The line at the gate afforded a great view of costumes. Elizabeth Bennet and Darcy. Sherlock Holmes. Alice with the Mad Hatter. Ebenezer Scrooge. Frankenstein’s monster.

Pax stood with Cliff, the arm at his sword rhythmically nudging Cliff. Not on purpose at all.

Cliff kept his gaze rooted ahead, while Luca and Henry took turns showing off to Bianca behind them.

At the gate ahead, a familiar voice boomed, “Giggle now, Juliet. Y2K hits, you’ll be killing Romeo over a packet of Weet-Bix.”

“They convinced Buster to bounce,” Pax said, grinning.

Henry groaned, jostling with Luca to swap sides so he could stand farthest from Buster.

“You really have beef with Buster, huh?” Pax asked Henry.

“He’s my former best friend Judy’s brother.”

“Former because you came on to her?”

“Because I didn’t come on to her.”

Oh, interesting. “Out of principle? Or did you just not want to fuck—”

Cliff tore his concentration off the sun-rimmed castle and glared at them. Okay, okay. Pax could tone it down a bit. He whispered, “Did you not fancy sticking your—”

Cliff clasped his neck and steered him away from his chat.

“Could you hold my bag?” Bianca piped up. “My zip’s coming undone.”

Luca replied immediately. “As you wish.”

“Hold your hair to the side, me lady,” Henry said. “I’ll fix it.”

Ahead, Buster barked, “Who breeds you idiots? Coal for Christmas. Every last one of you.”

Cliff muttered, “My thoughts exactly.”

When they stepped into the castle, the sweet scent of cinnamon and apple hit Pax’s nose. They swaggered to a long, narrow ballroom. High hand-carved ceilings, polished floors. A hundred costumed guests. Waiters carried trays of sparkling wine and Christmas mince pies, threading through guests dancing to the live lute, flute, harp, and wind chimes.

Luca and Henry raced one another to buy Bianca a desired Christmas pie, while she searched for a place to keep her shawl and purse.

Lively chatter and laughter filled the softly lit room. Pax stood with Cliff close to the entrance, scanning the room for the Three T’s. Maybe they hadn’t arrived yet.

Cliff shifted, dipping his head. His voice bubbled over Pax’s ear. “Know what song the band’s playing, Apollo?”

Pax listened to the notes and flicked his gaze up to Cliff. His fingers played with the hilt of his belt until it grew slippery. His signature grin didn’t feel quite so smooth. He licked his lips. Lamento di Tristano, if he heard correctly. Renaissance music. A love song. “How would I know? I just jam on the guitar.”

Cliff regarded him thoughtfully, gaze glancing to Pax’s bottom lip. He hummed. “Not just.”

Pax schooled his expression, though his insides rioted. Had Cliff figured it out? “What do you mean, not just?”

A slow smile lit Cliff’s face, and Pax caught his breath in anticipation. “You also write lyrics,” Cliff said, pulling out a piece of paper tucked inside his leather vest.

“Oh, that.” He let out a shaky laughed. “Sure.”

“I’ve read over it. A few times.”

Another knot formed in his stomach. And? What did you think? “Cool.”

“Do you want to know what I think?”

With questionable desperation, he shrugged. “If you want to tell me.”

Cliff opened the folded paper and read a lyric from a middle verse. “Come my birthday; it’s pizza all the way; you never make me pay.”

Pax cringed. “It shouldn’t be read like that.”

“Like what?”

“Strangled of intonation.”

Cliff folded the paper in half. “You can do better than this.”

Pax slouched against the wall and stared up at the carved ceilings. “If there was music to it—”

“I’ve known you a week and a half. Your favorite takeout is fish ’n’ chips.”

“Pizza’s good, too.”

“Not for your birthday.”

Cliff’s eyes stared too deeply into his. He couldn’t maintain his smile. “I wonder where Bianca disappeared to?” Pax said quickly.

Like a magic bullet, Cliff scoured the ballroom. Pax hauled in a steadying breath and pushed down the weird flurries that had burst into his chest unasked and unwanted.

“There she is,” Cliff said, kicking off the wall in Bianca’s direction, tucking the lyrics into his vest.

Pax followed, fighting off the disappointment. Focus on the goal. How best to occupy Cliff all evening?

How best to lure out a smile?

He observed the room. They could snag a small table with only two chairs, but Cliff had sat at his desk most of the day. There was a bar, but Cliff was the designated driver.

Having been here before, he knew his best bet at distracting Cliff would be outside the ballroom. The grounds. The battlements.

Henry pulled out a chair for Bianca at a small table, and Luca passed her a Christmas pie.

Pax stayed Cliff, a hand to his arm. “Before we torture ourselves playing audience to this trio, how about some swordplay on top of the castle?”

A hesitation.

Bianca coughed on a mouthful of fruity Christmas pie, and Henry slid his drink to her. “What’s mine is yours.”

Cliff groaned under his breath. “I think I’d rather let you slay me than witness this.”

Pax laughed under his breath. “Can be arranged. Head out to the foyer so I can have a few words? I’ll be right behind you.”

Cliff sighed and slipped past the heartbreakers toward the exit.

Pax yanked Henry by the lapels of his jacket and steered him into the wall.

“Hey, respect the jacket.”

Pax straightened the collar. “Bianca is a sweet girl. I have to be honest, I’m rooting for Luca in this triangle. But love can be complicated. Outright idiotic. If she chooses you, you’ll be good to her. She’s not a toy to have fun with and discard. Not another notch on your Hefner bedpost.” Pax lowered his voice. “If you so much as make her cry, I will make it my personal mission to make sure no girl ever dates you again.” Pax patted his chest. “We clear, Shakespeare?”

Henry scowled, but there was a gulp there, too. “As a summer’s day. By the way, here.” He slapped a piece of paper against Pax’s chest. “Tell your mates to call my uncle.”

Henry stepped past him, then twisted, looking at him as he walked backward. “I can whip it from under your feet anytime.”

Pax rubbed his jaw, a heavy, uncomfortable ache clotting in his gut. He slipped the paper into his pocket on his way to Cliff. “Let’s get out of here and fight.”

He needed to work off this tension drumming in his veins.

When they reached the battlement, Pax lifted his arms in the blessed sea breeze walloping around them. Salty, fresh, and cool, it clung damply against his skin. Lute and harp music reached up here, but muted. Cliff’s footsteps clapped against the stone alongside his as they moved to the wall.

They flanked a crenel, where archers might have stood, stone cold and hard.

Cliff leaned against the higher part of the wall, wig blowing into his face, and gazed out toward the gardens and the guests coming toward the castle.

A group of three guys dressed as musketeers strode toward the castle’s golden-flowered arch. Pax shifted, relief and apprehension tightening his stomach. “The rest of my band,” he murmured, absently touching his pocket.

Cliff followed his gaze to the cascading yellow flowers that glowed in the sinking evening light, and to his three mates slipping inside.

“Laburnum.”

“La-what?”

Cliff glanced at him. “The flowers. They’re laburnum.”

“They’re nice-looking.”

“It’s the plant they used to kill Socrates.”

“Fun facts are meant to be fun, Cliff.”

“It wasn’t meant to be fun. It was meant to be pointed.”

Cliff folded back, and Pax mirrored him, hand flying to the hilt of his fake sword.

“You mean to fight me?” Cliff noted.

“It’s our thing.” Plus, he needed to burn this energy weaving through him.

Metal against plastic casing scraped as Cliff drew his sword. Pax drew his, too, squeezing the leather-bound hilt.

“I should warn you,” Cliff said. “I fenced in high school.”

“Of course you did.” Pax spread his feet apart, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I should confess. I did not.”

Cliff laughed, and they crossed swords with a tap that vibrated to Pax’s wrist.

“First to force the other from the east to the west battlement,” Pax said, readjusting his slippery grip.

“Or whoever drops their sword first.”

Pax narrowed his eyes, but his damn lips had a life of their own, stretching into a smile.

Cliff thrust his sword and Pax swatted his to block it. One graceful strike later, Pax dropped his sword and it clattered against the stone. Cliff reached down, picked it up by the blade, and handed the hilt to him. “No one’s perfect.”

“Except you,” Pax muttered. “A week and a half, and all you’ve done is win.”

A gust of wind whipped around them, pinking Cliff’s cheeks and blowing his aftershave toward Pax. Another gust had Cliff’s wig flopping over the side of his head.

“Hold still.” Pax lifted the blunt end of his sword, slipped it under Cliff’s wig, and pulled it off.

Cliff shoveled a hand through his flattened hair and it settled neatly. “Better.”

“Yes.” Pax frowned, and looked between two high walls, glimpsing the golden-rain arch. Laburnum. “What did you mean it was a pointed comment?”

Cliff lifted his sword for another round. “Like the flowers, some ‘friendships’ may seem pretty, but they’re poisonous.”

Is that what theirs was?

The thought sank in his gut, made his feet heavy. He parried with little skill or enthusiasm. Cliff backed him toward the corner, hollow metal clashing.

“You think I’m laburnum?”

Cliff lost his footing. “What? I wasn’t talking about you.”

“Because I am pretty but poi—”

“Passionately dedicated to getting what you want. When you get it, you move on to the next prey. You’re the ultimate heartbreaker, Apollo, and you probably don’t even know it. But there’s too much charm in you to poison anyone.”

Charm.

An idiotic smile spread across his face, and Pax chastised himself. Get a grip. He was supposed to be getting over himself. “I do not break hearts.”

Cliff laughed softly. “If I believed that for a second . . .”

The weight that had almost rooted Pax to the ground had lifted and his feet danced across the stone.

“So if it’s not me or our friendship you are talking about—” Oh. Cliff meant the friendship with his band. “You’re wrong.”

Pax’s voice wavered. He shook it off, and lunged at Cliff, changing the subject. “Why are you so worried about your sister dating?”

Cliff didn’t answer for a few parries. Clashing metal cut through tense silence. Then Cliff glanced toward the sea. “Our parents.”

Pax halted, hand frozen on the sword crossed at the tip with Cliff’s. His mind filled with the photo from Cliff’s room. Sympathy tightened his throat, tensed his shoulders.

“They were professors. All about academics,” Cliff said, tone strained like he was speaking the truth, but not entirely. “They valued education and hard work. They wrote as much in their will. They wanted both of us to attend university, to open our minds, to embrace knowledge.” He swallowed. “Bianca is so close to following that path, I can’t let a boy drag her down.”

Again Pax was hit with the feeling Cliff had omitted something.

It didn’t feel right to press, so he focused on the part Cliff was willing to share. “Is that why you’re doing a double masters? To make them proud?”

A pained smile touched Cliff’s lips. “I love working on my master’s, but . . . yes, partly.”

Pax imagined the pressure Cliff felt, the soul-wrenching need to make their parents happy. As if doing so kept part of them alive and present, and gave him and Bianca direction as they struggled through grief.

A hiccup boiled in his chest.

He willed it down. “Trust your sister. She’s a smart girl.”

“Half the time.” Cliff dropped his sword to his side, shaking his head fondly. A gesture so out of place for the shrew.

Lute and harp soared up to them and they both turned toward the door leading to the battlements.

A couple giggled and kissed their way through to the fresh air.

Cliff scooped up his wig and held Pax’s gaze for an elongated second.

At another giggle, they sheathed their fake swords and strode inside.