“Stop at every store window, Apollo, and we’ll be late.”

“I’m just looking.”

Bells chimed from the nearby town square—the piazza, as Luca and Bianca called it. The sound carried beautifully, zigzagging into the narrow, cobblestoned alley. A few pedestrians walked past, vibrantly chatting in Italian.

Cliff caught Pax’s eye in the reflection of the antique store’s display window, and Pax swelled with laughter at the fond exasperation creasing Cliff’s lips.

“Your hair is fine. Your freckle hasn’t moved an inch. You are as hot as ever. Now let’s move. I want to be on time to walk Bianca down the aisle.”

“The wedding’s hours away. We’ll make it.”

“Like we made it to your gig in Berlin last year?”

“That was not my fault. The hair stylist took forever.”

“You made him redo it. Three times.”

“I was nervous. It was Berlin. My biggest gig yet.”

Cliff paused. “You nailed it, I’ll give you that.”

“Because I had the right hair.”

Cliff feigned disbelief but his eyes glittered with amusement, affection, love. “Fine. Look at your face as much as you like, but if we’re late, I’m styling your hair before your next gig.”

Pax laughed. He was 100 percent sure Cliff didn’t mean it.

Cliff lifted a tight eyebrow.

Okay, 80 percent sure.

Pax refocused on the window, catching Cliff shaking his head in the reflection. Fine, 60 percent.

“I’m not looking at myself,” Pax said, and for once he meant it. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass and peered inside. Gilded frames. Antique dressers. Puppets that looked like they’d been handstitched in another century. “I’m looking for the best place to leave her.”

Cliff sidled up to his side. Pax pulled away from the glass he’d fogged.

“What do you mean?” Cliff asked, voice softening, as if maybe he had a clue but wanted Pax to spell it out.

“Our angel,” Pax said. “The one you suggested bringing to Italy to ‘let out into the world’ even though I begged you to keep her for ourselves.”

A soft chuckle. “The one you hid from me.”

“She’s in the bottom of my suitcase.”

Cliff stepped closer. He tucked a finger under Pax’s jaw and settled the softest kiss on his bottom lip. Of course he knew what bringing the angel meant.

Cliff was nothing if not shrewd.

Pax melted against Cliff’s firm, supportive body. Would he ever get over how fucking perfect Cliff was? He could still be bossy and über-virtuous—especially when it came to managing Pax’s band alongside his career as a criminologist. But he was perfectly bossy and balanced out Pax’s vices.

Six years, and every day their connection deepened. It was the best symphony of his life.

“Luca’s hometown,” Pax murmured. “Bianca’s, now, too. . . . I think we should let the angel live here. Let others find love like we have. Like Bianca and Luca have. Like Henry and speak of the devil—”

Over Cliff’s shoulder, Henry and his taller partner trudged up the hill in the direction of the piazza.

Cliff rocked back and followed Pax’s gaze.

A cynical voice pierced through the alley. “I’m not mad. I now expect these cobblestones to murder me.”

Cliff shook his head at Buster’s familiar bark.

Pax chuckled. “Half a world away from home, and our neighbors follow us.”

“Bianca and Luca invited them.”

“I heard him practicing his toast last night. Shakespeare makes an appearance.”

Cliff groaned. “We’re buying a new house.”

“I suspect they’d follow us.”

“You’re probably right.”

Pax lifted on his toes and crushed himself against Cliff. Warm arms wrapped around him and Pax whispered in Cliff’s ear, “It’s nice, though, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That we’ve all remained friends.”

Cliff pulled back and held his gaze with all the sincerity Pax loved. “Good friends.”

“Yeah,” Pax agreed, and smiled a forever smile. “The best.”