Six o’clock tomorrow? That’s when they’d talk?

Did that mean if his evening with Anna went well . . .

Pax returned to his place, where Luca and Henry bickered in the living room while boxing each other on screen. The smell of burned toast and baked beans tainted the air. Luca offered him some dinner, but the thought of food made Pax sick.

He paced the living room, cursing his creativity. It might be great for making music, but when it came to wondering what the shrew was doing right now, it proved a curse.

Cliff had said Anna was a friend, but after tonight, would her status be upgraded? And come on. It was eight. Dating hour.

They’d be talking over dinner. Flirting. Sneaking small touches and reveling in the electricity sparking between them. And then there’d be no time for Pax to talk to Cliff. And it needed to be tonight. Not tomorrow morning at six.

He’d be up all night making up answers, and dammit, he needed the truth.

“A watched house doesn’t light up,” Henry droned from his spot on the beanbag.

Pax jerked his head toward the two boys. “How is it you fight like dogs over Bianca, and then hole up in here and shoot shit together?”

Henry glanced at Luca, frowned, and pummeled his avatar on screen.

Luca returned the punches.

“Never mind.”

Luca handed Pax his controller and told him to beat Henry. It offered minimal distraction, and after the third time Henry wiped his ass in the boxing ring, Pax gave up. He couldn’t sit idly like this. He needed to do something.

Maybe the balcony door to Cliff’s bedroom was open and he could sneak up there and confront him the moment he arrived home.

But what if he burst inside, and Cliff’s lips were locked with Anna’s, hands roaming up the inside of her shirt—

“Are we annoying you?” Luca said.

Pax barked at him. “What?”

“You look like you’re trying to set the screen on fire. With your eyes.”

Pax dropped the controller and scrubbed his face.

“You know,” Luca said quietly as they exchanged places on the beanbag. “That tree out front makes a very pretty view.”

The glee in Luca’s eye was telling. Pretty view.

Pax sauntered to the sliding doors and pressed himself close to the glass. Pretty handy view.

Clever Luca. Pax smiled at Luca’s reflection and reciprocated the favor. “You know, tonight’s a great night for the movies.”

“I don’t care for the movies.”

“Not even, say, Ten Things I Hate About You?”

In a flash, Luca heaved to his feet, controller thunking to the floor. Henry chased him outside, hollering about coming along.

Pax took the stairs two at a time and grabbed a black hoodie. Who knew how long he’d indulge in his new hobby as a tree hugger?

He picked up the angel. She was warm in his hand from sitting in the sunshine all day. He felt an odd compulsion to take her along.

He slipped her inside his hoodie pouch.

If she wasn’t allowed on Cliff’s Douglas fir yet, he’d let her tag along with him into the Pohutakawa, New Zealand’s native Christmas tree.

Weren’t they a festive pair tonight.

Festive, and freezing.

Dampness leaked into his jeans from the rough bark on the fork, where he perched between two branches. He wished he’d brought paper and Luca’s Troll pencil. Tortured nerves always triggered a few good lyrics.

An hour passed before Cliff returned home with Anna, and he shivered even more.

Wherever they had wined and dined, they’d strolled there. A nice romantic walk on this brisk night. They stopped at the gate, voices too low to catch. Pax shifted, crouching on the tree fork, hands squeezing splinters into his palms. Stupid blooming flowers blotted his view.

He stretched up and peeked through a gap in the leaves. The branch swayed under his weight, and he froze. Cliff scanned the garden. His gaze hesitated on the tree for a fraction before returning to Anna, who was smiling up at him like Cliff was an untouchable deity.

Anna laughed at something Cliff said.

Sounded like the rumble of a garbage truck, but to each his own.

Cliff gathered her in his arms, and Pax’s throat pinched on a scoff. What was he trying to do? Rub his scent over her? Cliff hadn’t the first idea how to woo a woman.

Tip number one: Don’t linger on the hug. It’s creepy.

Tip number two: Leave them hanging high and dry. It creates suspense.

Tip number three—

Oh, finally, she was leaving. Turning up the hill from whence she came.

Cliff watched her until she was out of sight, then moved across the yard toward the tree. Damn this man for knowing everything.

Not too off-plan. Pax had intended on catching Cliff’s attention and revealing himself. But Cliff had taken away the opportunity to toss a twig at him. An unfair turn of events.

Cliff’s eyes latched on to him without a hint of surprise. “Come down, Apollo.”

“The view’s good up here, thanks.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Pax stared down at Cliff’s moonlit face. “I have questions for you.”

“I may have answers.”

Pax stuck his hands into the pouch of his hoodie, brushing against the angel. “How was your date?”

Not a question he’d intended on asking. He chastised himself and glanced into the shadows of the bushy leaves to his left.

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Right. And you weren’t trying to grope her.”

“Your view mustn’t be that good, after all.”

“Come find out for yourself.”

Cliff hesitated, and for a moment, Pax thought he wouldn’t do it.

“Where were you earlier?” Cliff asked, pulling himself up into the tree. He stood on a lower branch, arm stretched above Pax, bringing them surprisingly close. Cliff’s stomach brushed Pax’s outer thigh, and they were face to face. Pax higher than Cliff, for once.

Pax glanced at the house. “If it was a date, I have a few tips for you—”

“It wasn’t. I’ve other things to focus on. My master’s degree. Getting a job.”

“What about hand jobs and blow jobs?”

“The only other job I’m concerned about is the con job you are pulling on me.”

Pax opened his mouth and shut it, scowling. “Which one are we talking about?”

Cliff laughed, and swore, and laughed. “All of them.”

“If we’re going to argue”—Pax met Cliff’s eye with the lift of his chin—“which I’m in the mood for, by the way, we should probably pick one and go from there. I vote the tutoring one, because it’s been on my mind for hours. And, seriously, you play the piano? That well?”

“Tutoring it is. Yes, I play, and I’d hazard to say I play as well as you.”

“I know it’s a fight, but am I allowed to preen?”

“No.”

“Fine, you play better, anyway,” Pax said. Cliff’s expression lifted. “Hey, no fair.”

Cliff smoothed his expression.

“You bought the con for a while, though,” Pax muttered.

“Is that what you think?” Cliff leaned in and Pax’s body prickled.

“At least until Chopin?”

Cliff shook his head.

“Moonlight Sonata?”

Cliff shook his head.

“The flyer?”

“The flyer amused me, and I decided to play along. I was curious how far you’d go.”

“How far was that?”

“Impressively far.”

“There wasn’t a single moment I was convincing?”

“No. Even if you had fooled me, it would have ended at scallions.”

Fair enough. Even Pax winced at that memory. “Why aren’t you tutoring Bianca? Why did you stutter with ‘Carol of the Bells’?”

“Where were you this afternoon?”

Pax tossed up his hands and almost slipped out of the tree. Cliff jutted his hips out, abs pushing against his thigh, steadying him. “I was practicing with the band, okay?”

Cliff’s lips pressed together in a sad line was too much. Pax stared at his lap, where Cliff had pressed against him. He was still close, no longer touching, but Pax could still feel the phantom weight.

Cliff shifted his grip on the upper branch. “She doesn’t want to listen to me,” he said quietly. “If I ask her to do something, she won’t do it. She loves piano. Not great at it, but loves it.” Cliff shook his head. “I can’t take that away from her by insisting on teaching her myself.”

Oh. That was . . . yeah.

Leaves shivered with a breeze, and needle-thin red petals rained down on them.

One landed on Pax’s nose, and Cliff skated it off him with the pad of his thumb.

The tender flutters in Pax’s stomach unsettled him. “Bianca hugged you, though. After you played.”

“That’s the other reason I haven’t tried to teach her myself.” He rolled his shoulders, avoiding eye contact. “It’s been a while since I’ve played.”

“You were incredible,” Pax said. No matter how much Cliff annoyed him, Pax would never lie about music.

Cliff’s music had pulled at him, made him want more. Made him feel radiant and energized, like he could do anything. That was skill. That was beauty. That was love.

Cliff smiled morosely. “Nothing to our dad.”

Pax’s voice came out rough. “He played?”

“He was a professor of music at Otago.” Cliff’s eyes shuttered for a second. “When you played ‘Carol of the Bells’ . . . for a moment, it sounded like his style.”

It hit him like Blake’s fist, cutting deeper than skin. This time to his chest. He ached for Cliff and Bianca. For their loss. “You’re Professor Cartridge’s son? But your last name’s Wilson.”

“We have Mum’s last name.” A fleeting glance at Pax’s hands. “He did, didn’t he? Dad taught you.”

“He taught me well.”

“I heard.”

“He was amazing.”

“I know.”

“His were the only classes I showed up for.”

“Imagine how much better you’d be if you’d gone to all your classes.”

Pax gave him a playful shove. Cliff wobbled and overcorrected, rushing forward. His nose bumped against Pax’s chin. Heels firm against the tree trunk, Pax steadied him, one hand against the soft shirt at Cliff’s chest. Cliff pulled himself back.

“You must be cold.” Pax hadn’t dropped his arm.

“Not right now.”

The night was dark and moist. Dewy drops clung to the branches and filmed Pax’s hoody. The cuffs of his sleeves damply kissed his wrists. Cliff leaned before him, scenting the air with aftershave and cinnamon, and moonlight dappled through the trees, casting an ethereal glow over his face. Tilted upward, open, gaze cautiously searching Pax’s.

Pax’s stomach twisted, and a nervous laugh tripped out of him. “We haven’t finished fighting. There are other things I did. Am doing. Will do.”

“Of course.” Cliff stepped back on the branch, and the cool air he’d blocked rushed to slap Pax. Deservedly. That stupid laugh was ill timed. Why did he have to throw up walls?

Maybe this was why he had no real friends.

“It’s late.” Cliff jumped down, shoes thumping against the grass. “I have lots to do tomorrow.”

Panic tickled his gut. He wanted Cliff back up there. Wanted to fight with him. Wanted to tease him.

Wanted him to stay.

He called desperately after him. “Don’t you ever take a day off?”

Cliff moved toward the house. “No, especially not this time of year.”

“Because your parents died around Christmas?”

Cliff stopped, and the air crackled with confrontation. Pax had knowingly stepped over the invisible line. It didn’t matter how softly he’d uttered the words. He had said them.

Cliff didn’t speak, but his stiffened posture said everything.

Pax couldn’t hold back. Frustration and sympathy twisted like a caduceus. “What were you like before they passed? Did you have friends?” He should stop. Couldn’t. “Did you ever do something solely because it felt good?”

He was baiting Cliff.

He was baiting him and wishing for a reaction. Any reaction that meant he wouldn’t leave.

Fight him. Hate him.

Stay with him.

“Or were you always a shrew?”

Pax choked on self-disappointment. It all made sense. He was a vain, selfish person, and he didn’t deserve friends.

Not even sort of friends.

Cliff turned, and Pax briefly shut his eyes. “Fuck. I’m sorry—”

In two leaps, Cliff was on the lower branch again. Moonlight dappled him, accentuating the slight downward turn of his lips. His glasses sat perfectly on his nose, rectangular rims framing a steady gaze. A gaze trained on him.

Pax rubbed the rough bark, ready for Cliff’s cutting response.

Instead, a soft curse tickled over his jaw, and a hot palm clutched his shoulder, sweeping firmly to his nape.

“What—”

Cliff crushed their lips together.

Pax gasped into Cliff’s mouth.

Cliff answered with the sweep of his tongue, hips pinning Pax’s leg against the trunk. Fingertips drifted into his hair, and Pax became aware of a button pressing against his inner thumb where he gripped Cliff’s shirt, urging him closer.

Cliff’s chest rose against his knuckles.

Pax’s heart beat too fast for words.

Fingers dug deeper into his hair, and Pax shivered as their tongues touched.

Cliff cocooned him in tingly warmth. He tasted of cinnamon and cloves and Christmas. Cliff’s dick was hard against his leg, and Pax’s strained against satin in his jeans.

Pax palmed himself and readjusted with a moan. Cliff deepened the kiss. Holy shit, the shrew’s mouth was enchanted. Tasted like music. Zapped his skin.

Pax melted into the kiss, hands seeking a way inside Cliff’s shirt.

Before he could untuck him, Cliff drew back calmly. Expression gallingly bored. “I had friends. I had boyfriends. I did many, many things because they felt good.” He leaned in close, noses bumping. “I was not always a shrew.”

Pax licked his bottom lip. “I’m sorry, Cliff.”

Cliff studied him, and Pax squirmed. He laughed—the only thing he knew to do. “You need to get back out there. Kisses like that should not be wasting away in a study.”

More petals rained on them.

Nothing landed on Cliff, but Pax swept his hands over Cliff’s shoulders anyway. “I knew you were attracted to guys, you know.”

A disbelieving laugh. “You grilled me over a catch-up with Anna.”

“Yeah, because I was seized with jealousy. You can be attracted to both, you know.”

Cliff’s eyes trained on his, a glimmer of surprise in his eye. “Jealous?”

“I thought she would have her wicked way with you and . . . well . . . I was here first.”

The outburst of egotism surprised neither of them.

Luca had him pegged with the two-steps forward, one-step back analysis.

“Is everything a game to you?” Cliff’s voice warred between frustration and amusement.

Maybe not everything. Pax tapped his foot against Cliff’s leg. “Yes, and you’re winning every single one, damn you. Kiss me again.”

A dry laugh. “No.”

Pax sang, “Come on. Cliff and Pax, sitting in the tree, K-I-S-S—”

Cliff’s rolling eyes made Pax laugh.

“You taste good, shrew. I’m no mathematician, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer to one horny guy plus another horny guy.”

Cliff sharply shifted back and climbed out of the tree. “Not interested.”

“That kiss said otherwise,” he called after him.

“I did it to illustrate a point.”

“That you weren’t always a shrew?”

Cliff was at the porch now. “Yes. Your lips were the example of what the old me considered fun. Nothing more.”

“So you didn’t mean it. I didn’t either.” Pax skidded out from the branches. He stumbled to the grass, and the angel in his pouch stabbed him in the gut. He picked himself up and jogged to Cliff, who was searching for his key.

He shoved Cliff against the wall in the porch nook, a hand splayed on his chest. “Can we, maybe, not mean it some more?”

“No.”

“You don’t have to stay a shrew, you know.”

Suddenly Cliff was crowding Pax against the opposite wall with a wolfish grin. The cold wood bit lines into his back. “Maybe I want to stay a shrew.” Cliff shifted back and pulled his keys from his other pocket. “Go home.”

Pax let out an exasperated growl. “Fine, but don’t think for a second I won’t be thinking of you as I come all over myself.”

“Get out of here.” Cliff’s voice didn’t even hitch.

Pax leaned in and nipped Cliff’s bottom lip. “I think I know what my next game will be.”

“Convincing me to fuck you?”

He passed Cliff, pausing to whisper at his ear. “To have fun with me. On me. Inside me. However old Cliff liked it best.”

However it brought out his smiles.