Music fueled his heart, and Pax needed to pick up some equipment from the band’s apartment so he could jam. He hooked Luca into driving him across town for his amp, pedals, and stomp boxes. A couple of hours later, he was setting his shit up in his new room while the angel he’d placed on his windowsill watched.

Pax kept glancing at her—or more truthfully, behind her into the neighbors’ house.

Into the room Cliff and Bianca had fought in yesterday.

Half music room and half study, books crammed the shelves, a large desk dominated the room, and a grandma piano sat against the side of the wall. The window was shoved up, and open books lay scattered on the desk next to a computer monitor and an outrageously yellow phone.

Amp and guitar cable connected, Pax slung his guitar strap over his shoulder and plucked up the angel. She distracted him too much. Kept making him peer into the study. Kept reminding him of his earlier loss against the shrew.

Pax propped the delicately carved ornament against his pillow. “Watch from there, hon.”

He strummed his strings. His hand ached a little from yesterday, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

He poured himself into a song. Energy vibrated through his calloused fingers right to his soul. Eyes shut, he let the rhythm take over.

Few things overwhelmed him in life; even fewer things won against him. Except music. It owned him, and he’d have it no other way.

The beat thrummed through him, twisting, turning, defying expectation. He moved with it, buckling under its mighty fucking roar.

It raced over his skin. Wormed into his veins. Hardened his dick.

His ears rang with the melodies; skin goose bumped with the static; nose flared with the warming metal and his own sweat; tongue salivated for more. He opened his eyes and hit himself with a blur of color.

His vision sharpened as he caught sight of Cliff at his desk. Their gazes collided for a microsecond before Cliff’s darted to his books. No disguising it. Cliff had been watching. A grin ate Pax’s face.

He jammed harder. Come on. Look again. Pax would catch him properly next time. Didn’t listen to his “god-awful music,” his ass. Like any other fan, seeing a rock star in action slithered seductively under Cliff’s skin.

Pax adjusted the volume and played a piece sure to hook Cliff’s gaze. The piece Bianca had butchered this morning. Beethoven’s Symphony no. 5.

Cliff froze midflip of a page in his book.

Pax hit every note flawlessly.

The page turned, and Cliff stood with his book. He circled the room, head bowed toward his text. Pax played with every ounce of cheekiness he could, fingers flying up and down the neck of his guitar.

Cliff paused at the window.

Any second now, he’d look over. He’d lift that square chin and ill-humored green eyes, and he’d give in to a smile—

Without the sneakiest of glances, Cliff lifted his arm and pulled the window shut.

Pax stopped playing and let out an incredulous, “What?”

Cliff circled back to his desk without a break in his step.

Pax settled his guitar onto the bed and muttered to the sole witness of his second defeat, “Doesn’t count. If I’d been able to, I would’ve closed his window—and curtains while I was at it.”

Disbelief shaded the angel’s face. Or maybe it was his shadow.

Either way, he scowled. “Enough. Time to friend the shrew for real.”

He plugged in his microphone, set the volume to Fuck You Very Much, and held the angel at the window. “Five minutes, the fence. Or I’ll serenade you for the whole street to hear.”

Cliff yanked his head up.

Five minutes later, Pax stood at the fence, arms folded. Sunshine filtered around fluffy clouds, casting warm splotches of light over him. Angel tucked against his chest, he kicked the fence in time to the beat of the song he would bust out if Cliff failed to show.

Three, two, one—

Cliff tromped around the side of his house.

“Aww, and I so wanted to sing my heart out to you.”

Cliff spoke tonelessly and motioned with his hand. “Another time. Angel.”

“Not so fast, Shrew.”

Cliff’s no-bullshit look flashed through his tortoise shell glasses. “No more of that friending business. I have ‘mates’ enough.”

Pax fought a snicker and failed. “The air quote you just used says otherwise.” He shifted the angel to his pocket, hooked his other arm along the fence, and leaned against it. His view of Cliff opened. Still no shoes. “But I’ll play along. Who are these mates?”

Cliff opened his mouth and shut it again. “Plenty of women think I’m interesting.”

“Their ears are deafened by your man-looks.”

Cliff blinked at him. “My man-looks?”

Pax waved it off. He wasn’t here to boost this man’s ego. “Irrelevant. I will help you temper yourself from shrew to shrewdly fantastic.”

Cliff moved to interject, and Pax held up his hand. “Nope, this isn’t a discussion. It is a monologue. You’ll be my mate. Period.”

They stared at each other. The faint twitch on Cliff’s face might have been amusement if his eyes didn’t light with a fire that promised to burn.

Only for music would Pax throw himself into the shrew’s raging path.

Look at him standing there like that. Shrouded in order and authority. Exuding a “man of the house, and nothing gets past me” vibe. The tight length of him was all coiled energy that might explode at any second.

“Are you done?” Cliff asked.

“Sizing you up?”

“With your monologue.”

“Both.”

Cliff narrowed his eyes. “The truth. Are you trying to get close to my sister?”

“I don’t even know your sister.”

“A liar if ever I’ve seen one.”

“I’m not.”

Cliff’s gaze suctioned onto him and he studied his face. “You’re hiding something.”

“Hiding many things, actually. From many people. Look, I’m Pax Polo. I’m bored. It’s summer. Friending the neighborhood shrew sounds like fantastic fun to me.”

“Is that right, Apollo?”

“Pax Polo.”

Cliff rolled his eyes and refused to correct himself. “Is fun what you’re about?”

“You bet.”

A yard behind Cliff, the living room window shuddered open and Bianca popped her head out. Sweet, heart-shaped face, rosy cheeks, and cascading chestnut hair.

“Cliff, what are you—” Bianca caught sight of Pax and cut herself off. Her gaze yo-yo’d between her brother and him. “Who are you?”

Pax deepened his voice like he did with the media and nodded once with a cool lift of his chin. “Pax. Pax Polo.”

Nothing. Not one wink of recognition.

He shifted to the right, where her brother didn’t veil him so much. Still nothing. “You honestly don’t know who I am?”

Cliff snorted, a smirk deepening his cheek. Bastard.

“You’re seventeen,” Pax implored. “A girl. Don’t all your friends have my picture plastered above their beds?”

“Uh, no?”

Pax glanced at Cliff, then Bianca. Surely one of her friends knew him, unless . . . He pointed a finger at Cliff and stage-whispered, “Does he let you have friends?”

Bianca laughed. “As long as they’re girls.”

It didn’t make any sense. “Are you sure you don’t have my poster anywhere? A cup with my name on it?”

Cliff rolled his eyes. “Bianca has better taste than listening to rock trash.”

Rock trash? Pax toe-tapped a beat against the fence, making it shudder between them. He met Cliff’s eye. “Tease me all you like, Shrew. I’m still friending you this summer.”

Bianca giggled, causing Cliff to cast a sharp glance at her. “Please tell me you’re not taken in by this lunatic.”

Exaggerating a hum, Bianca ogled Pax, a twinkle in her eye. She might not know him, but she wanted to. Pax flashed a winning grin and Cliff scowled.

“Are you really going to befriend my brother?” she asked.

“Very, very hard.”

Cliff muttered under his breath, and Bianca nodded, abruptly turned, and disappeared. Pax was about to ask what happened, when Bianca returned with a slip of paper. She climbed onto the ledge and stretched her body out toward him.

Pax hopped up and leaned over the top of the fence before Cliff could snag the paper away.

He glanced at the note and hooted. Phone number. “I think your sister likes clever lunatics.” Pax met Cliff’s dubious expression and winked. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Bianca brightened. “Are you friends with the Italian?”

“Live with him, too.” No matter how temporarily. “Nicest boy you’ll meet. Cheerfully optimistic and loves you”—Cliff folded his arms and Pax barely suppressed a chuckle—“Johann Sebastian Bach.”

“He spoke to me once,” Bianca said. “He sounded—”

The shrill cry of a ringing phone cut Bianca off. She leaped backward. “That’ll be Debbie about props.” Cliff’s face was blank. “For our upcoming performance of Twelfth Night?”

“Christmas props. Yes.”

She glanced down at the ferns. “Speaking of Christmas props. Did you ever find our angel?”

Cliff nodded stiffly. “I know where it is.”

“Please put it on the tree?”

Bianca leaped into the depths of the house, leaving Pax and Cliff alone. Slowly, Cliff turned his gaze on him as if Pax were a bug. To be squashed, and quickly.

Against the fence, Pax tapped to the beat of triumph. “You’ll have to earn your angel back.”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“I was aiming for bribing. But sure.”

Cliff pressed himself against the fence. Pax felt his heat leaking through the gaps against his front. “You know what? We should hang out.”

Pax lifted his chin. He swallowed. “Blackmailing. Bribing. Whatever we’re calling it, seems it’s working.”

“My decision has nothing to do with the angel.” A flicker of emotion seeped through Cliff’s expression and he shielded it, jawline hardening.

Pax paused. He softened his voice, aiming for sympathetic, but it sounded suggestively husky. “Really? Why the sudden change of heart?”

“You know what they say.” Fire roared in Cliff’s eyes, and this time Pax shivered under it. “Keep your friends close.” Cliff lowered his voice. “And scheming swashbucklers closer.”

In one fluid movement, Cliff stepped back. “Out front, five o’clock. Sneakers.”

Pax had done it. Had won a friend date with the shrew.

His smug smile shrank. “Wait, sneakers? You don’t think we’re running, do you?” Pax didn’t run. Not ever.

Cliff turned the corner out of sight, muttering, “Five o’clock. Let’s see if your legs are as fast as your tongue.”