Perhaps it was a little premature to make his move, but after a night dreaming of a packed stadium screaming at him and the band for an encore, Pax needed the dream to come true.

He slipped on a dark pair of cargo pants and a tight T-shirt that revealed the horse tattoo on his arm, and sunk his fingers into his hair so it would dry just right: effortlessly cool. Shades, boots, and shit-eating grin—he would bring it all for the chance of opening for Lone Whistle and the Deserted.

He plucked the angel topper off his bedside and grinned at her. “I’ll get on his good side. Make him laugh. Make him wish me in his life forever.”

He weaseled her into the deep pocket at his outer thigh, smacked a kiss onto his fingers, and touched his guitar before heading downstairs. Luca was in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal over the sink. He stared dreamily toward a rusty, mint-green van parked out front.

“You’re up early,” Pax said, snagging an apple from a glass bowl and crunching into it.

Luca shoveled in another spoonful of cereal. “Mine,” he said, Weet-Bix chubbing his cheek.

“What’s yours? That beauty of a car, or Bianca?”

Luca swallowed. “It’s nine. Not early.”

“In my world, nine’s the middle of the night.”

“How’s the face?”

“It’s looked prettier, but the pain’s gone. Ready to hide behind a tree while I knock on the neighbors’ door?”

Luca dropped his dishes into the sink and zipped toward the door. “What are we waiting for?”

Pax ate his apple all the way to the neighbors’ porch lined with potted plants. If Bianca answered, Luca would swing from his branch in the Pohutakawa tree faster than the breezes whipped at his back.

If Bianca answered, Pax would need to invite himself in and hunt for her brother.

Boots planted on the springy welcome mat, he took one last bite of deliciously juicy apple, and chucked the other half over his shoulder onto the lawn.

He sucked the juice off his fingers and jiggled the cold chain of a bronze bell. A tinny noise shattered through the house, rattling his bones with excitement. He did it again.

The door swiftly opened. Aromatic aftershave hit him, followed by clunky playing of Beethoven on the piano inside.

The shrew filled the doorway.

Tall. Midtwenties. Barefoot. Dark shorts that hit the knee. Polo shirt. Uncompromising, hard jaw. Gently pinched nose. Rectangular glasses. Astute green eyes.

Eyes that met Pax’s like a gavel against a block.

“No,” Cliff said, and shut the door, blowing a tornado of fragrant scent into his face.

Pax frowned, withdrew his hands from his pockets, and stashed his fingers through his hair. Settled low on his nose, his shades covered most of his bruise. He looked good. Was too slender to be intimidating. Had enough wear ’n’ tear in his designer clothes not to be mistaken for someone preaching God’s word.

He rattled the bell chain another time.

Cliff opened again, rutted brow shading the caution in his expression. The shock of Cliff’s eyes might have been unsettling, but the lines at his mouth said Cliff had a history of smiling. There was fun in there. All Pax had to do was tap into it.

“I am here to show you the light,” Pax said. “Not the religious kind.” He cocked Cliff a grin, which had Cliff pressing his lips together.

“You’re here to score with my sister. I don’t care for it.” Cliff began closing the door.

“I’m here to introduce myself,” Pax said. “I’m your new neighbor.”

The door stilled. Eyes met his with zero interest. “Hello. Goodbye.” The door proceeded to shut in his face.

Strike two.

Pax scowled. A door to his face? Twice? This preppy poster boy had no idea what level of vanity he was up against.

Pax gave up on the bell and knocked, infusing the wood with his sweat, determination, and obstinacy.

The door whipped open. Cliff’s impatient air gave Pax the urge to cackle. He suppressed it—just—and peered at Cliff over the top rim of his shades. “We could be excellent neighbors.”

A dubious look.

Pax continued, “Carpool to work and whatever.” Not that he had a car. He’d been in charge of driving the van, but it had stayed with the band.

“I work mostly from home. Work that you are interrupting. Try another neighbor.”

This time Pax was ready. He angled his body and leaned on the doorjamb. “They call you the neighborhood shrew, you know.”

Cliff laughed drily. “Clearly they don’t know that a shrew is a horrible word for an aggressively assertive woman.”

“Man-shrew, then. A bad-tempered boy. A very bad-tempered boy.”

Cliff leaned in and Pax caught another whiff of aftershave. “Yet you still care for conversation?”

“I’m not an angel myself. I’ll make up my own mind about you.”

“Let me help you along. Get your sly-ass smile off my porch.”

Sly-ass smile? He really was a shrew. “It’s a smug smile, thank you very—”

“Off.”

“See, it makes it hard for us to become friends when you talk like this.”

Cliff frowned at him like Pax was nuts. “Friends?”

“Yeah, guys you shoot the shit with. Tease mercilessly. Roughhouse the crap out of.”

“I don’t want friends. Even if I did, it wouldn’t be with a pretty-faced fool like Pax Polo.”

Pax’s smile turned ultra smug. “You know who I am.”

“I wish I didn’t. But since you can’t help plastering yourself on the front page of every local newspaper . . . .”

“Admit it. You read the articles.”

“Well, I don’t listen to that god-awful music.”

Ouch.

A real piece of work indeed. “I’ll leave as soon as you turn down that achingly inferior interpretation of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5.”

Cliff paused. Assessed him again. This time even more cautiously than the first time.

The longer Pax studied Cliff, the more the preppy package suited the guy. His striking confidence made Pax imagine himself dressed like that. Jesus. If he did, his mum would have a field day. Especially if he stopped darkening his hair and magicked away the ink on his arm.

Morning light turned a strip of Cliff’s chestnut hair gold. The striking shade had Pax instinctively patting the angel in his cargo pocket.

He’d come to hand it over, but in all honesty, he didn’t want to. The nice weighty warmth of it felt like good luck, and he needed all the luck he could gather.

Cliff clasped those forest eyes on him. “That’s my sister’s achingly inferior interpretation of Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5.”

“If she needs a tutor—”

“Balls, yours or anyone’s, are prohibited from stepping over this threshold.”

Now Cliff was asking for it.

Pax rang out an amused laugh. “We’re going to be friends, all right. You need someone like me in your life.”

“Someone like what?”

“Someone who will tell you you’re a bossy son of a bitch. Someone who will show you what having a mate can be like.”

Cliff’s tight gaze flickered beyond Pax’s shoulder. Did he see Luca?

Cliff brushed past him and strode to the lawn. Pax rocked up a brow and followed him.

With the shake of his head, Cliff crouched, plucked up the half-eaten apple by the stalk, and stood to his full height. A good half head taller than Pax. He pivoted, apple twisting. “Yours?”

“It was delicious.”

“You tossed half on my lawn.”

“Fine, averagely delicious.”

“Littering is a crime.”

Seriously? “It’s biodegradable. Compost. Good for worms. Hey, you might like it.”

“Insults all part of the friend gig?”

“I’m sure you’ll feel right at home.”

Movement to their side stole their attention. Luca fell out of the tree in a walloping crash. He groaned and jumped up, dusting himself off.

Cliff stared for a pregnant second, then returned his unimpressed gaze to Pax.

Pax winced. “We’re really fun once you get to know us?”

Cliff pushed the sticky, browning apple against his chest and Pax instinctively grabbed the slippery fruit.

“I don’t know what your game is, but: Go. Home.”

Cliff didn’t wait for Pax’s comeback. He cut back to his house in five easy strides.

Maybe friending the shrew would be a touch harder than he thought.

He waited for the door to shut and tossed the apple into a fern fringing the house. He turned with a satisfied smirk, and found Luca scowling over the fence at Henry emptying his mailbox.

Pax trod over the lawn and stood at Luca’s side.

Henry scoffed and lifted a conceited nose. “To be in the band again, or not to be in the band again, that is the question.” He sashayed up the path, curls bouncing delightfully.

Pax hooked an arm around Luca’s neck. “Hefner? Really?”

“I heard when he has a girl over, he wears nothing but the velvet jacket.”

“He’s quite the dickhead.”

“Sì. An enormous ass.”

Pax grimaced. “I fear we may be complimenting him.”

Luca picked fine red petals off the hem of his T-shirt. “You had many words with the shrew. Are you friends yet?”

“Sure. Practically. Don’t you worry about it.” Pax steered Luca toward their place.

“You’ll distract him, then?”

“He won’t know what’s hit him.”

Sure, Cliff might have won the first Battle of the Balls, but Pax hadn’t eaten a proper breakfast. He hadn’t warmed up yet. He would win the war.