After a day and a half perfecting Chopin and freaking out his mum, Pax was ready for his Wednesday morning concert. Nocturne no. 20. Because, well, same reason he’d performed Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. By rational standards, 5:30 was still the middle of the night.

After a grueling run, Cliff parted at the gate without replying to Pax’s question.

Pax would have none of that. He was owed an answer. And the answer must be “Yes, Luca may tutor my sister.”

Cliff waltzed toward his front door, and as he slipped his key in the lock, Pax vaulted over the gate and jogged to the porch.

The door closed just before he reached it. Never mind. It’d been a while since he had fun with this bell. He ran wild on it, and when the door reluctantly opened, Pax slipped on a smile.

“Let me in, we need to chat.”

Cliff braced his hands either side of the doorframe. “No.”

“No?”

“Three reasons.”

“Name ’em.” Pax had his fingers ready to tick off Cliff’s excuses.

“I need a shower. I have three chapters to finish for my supervisor. And balls are still prohibited in this house.”

Pax cocked his head, swallowing a rumbling need to laugh. “For one and two: what we have to chat about will take one moment. As for three. I think balls should be hibited. I think you should hibit mine right now.”

Cliff’s cheeks almost gave in to a dimple. “If you must chat, go.”

“The thing is . . .” Pax faked a cough and grabbed his throat. “Water.”

“You are the most transparent person I’ve ever met.”

Pax stopped faking. “What do you think will happen if I step inside? I’ll turn into an unstoppable sex machine?”

Cliff swallowed, sweeping the length of Pax in a blink of the eye. “Let’s keep this friend gig between us . . . neighborly.”

“Now I not only wonder if you know what a friend is, I wonder if you know what a neighbor is.”

Cliff leaned toward him and spoke in hushed tones. “It’s someone who stays on their side of the fence.”

Pax pressed a forefinger against the lighter skin on Cliff’s nose where his glasses usually sat. Cliff rocked back with Pax’s light push. “Not where I grew up.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“Port Chalmers.”

“Port of charmers,” Cliff said flatly. “I should have guessed.”

Pax winked, eliciting an eye roll and the deepening of dimples. “Answer this question, and I’ll forget about sneaking into your house.”

“Go on.”

“Can Luca tutor Bianca?”

Not convinced of Luca’s qualifications yet? It was the worst answer he could have given.

Right. Mind made up. Pax would sneak inside that house.

If Cliff fucked with Pax, Pax would fuck with Cliff. And enjoy it.

“You’re pacing,” Luca said from the beanbag, where he was reading a computer manual. “What devilish ideas are brewing in your head?”

Before Pax could respond, a heavy thump sounded at the door. Pax opened it.

Henry, hair wet lengthening his curls, swept into the hall and into the living room. “Please, come in,” Pax said to the pineapple scent Henry left behind. He kept the front door open to air out the hall. Also, to make it easier for Henry to leave again.

In their dark living room, Henry flung open the curtains. Sunshine greeted them and so did the view of the neighbors’.

Luca dropped his manual and joined Henry, nose pressing to the glass.

Pax leaned against the piano. Even from here, he could see Bianca on her knees before the Christmas tree. Praying, it looked like. But Pax couldn’t be sure.

“She is very cute,” Luca said.

Henry pushed back from the sliding door with a dramatic clutch to his chest. “I burn, I pine, I perish.”

Pax encouraged him with a look. “Keep working on that last one.”

Henry scowled. “I told you to distract her brother more. Instead, all I get are scraps of time while you run.” He approached the other end of the piano. Dragged his fingers over the keys until he got close to Pax at the low end. He stabbed a few keys. The Jaws tune. The tone pulled for a good few seconds.

“How ratishly dramatic,” Pax said, snapping the lid shut.

Henry ripped his fingers away. “I talked to my uncle. He seems keen on the idea of Serenity Free opening for Lone Whistle and The Deserted.”

Pax straightened.

“Of course, he can easily be persuaded it’s a terrible idea.”

“It’s not.” Pax and his mates would do it justice.

“More Bianca time.”

Luca watched them from across the room, frowning. Pax nodded curtly to Henry. “There’s a party next Tuesday at Larnach Castle. I’ll work on getting everyone there. Also, you could . . .” Gah, he hated suggesting this because he really was rooting for Luca. But Henry could give him the performance of his dreams.

“Also . . .?”

“You could suggest practicing lines with Bianca. I’ll, um, warm Cliff up about the idea.”

Henry smoothed the ends of his jacket. “Perfect.”

He disappeared.

Luca picked up his manual and bowed his head into the text. Pax knew Luca was disappointed.

He banged his head back against the doorframe. When did being a rogue get tricky? He was starting to question himself. How long could he keep resisting these feelings he was forced to bury?

“You never told him it was a costume party,” Luca said graciously. Like he accepted Pax’s predicament at the expense of his own hope to win Bianca’s heart.

Pax kinda hated himself. “He’ll fit right in just as he is.”

Luca chuckled, but a frown etched his brow. “Do you think we are approaching this the wrong way?”

Pax rubbed the corner of the piano. His heart thumped a guilty beat.

Maybe Pax was doing this the wrong way. But . . . this was the only way he knew. “Nothing means more to me than music.”

Luca stared at Pax a long moment, then shrugged whatever thought he had off and smiled. “What do you need me to do?”

Pax pulled out his cell phone. “Sit there and look pretty. I got this.”

Two rings chimed before Cliff’s voice droned in his ear. “What are you plotting now?

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Could you take a break? I’m trying to finish this chapter.”

“Can you take a break? All you ever do is work in that study of yours, morning to night. Work, work, work. Only stopping to run your daily half marathon or boss your sister around.”

“You’re forgetting something else I’m spending considerable time on.”

“What?”

“These inane conversations with you.”

Inane! “At least I bring a bit of fun into your rigid life.”

Cliff’s voice prickled. “Yes, you’re all play, play, play. Life is a game to you. You’d rather use that silver tongue of yours to schmooze your way through life than buckle down and work.”

“What ain’t broke . . .”

“And when it breaks?”

“It won’t.”

“I bet my ass it will implode in your face. Eventually your band will drift apart, your moderate fame will diminish, your sweet face will sour. You’ve hitched to their wagon instead of designing your own. One that, granted, takes effort to build. But that might last a lifetime.”

The words hit Pax like a freight train, and he resisted the impact. His jaw clenched against the pathetic fear lurking in his belly. “No mincing words with you, is there?”

A pause. “Rarely.”

Pax laughed tightly. Without realizing it, he’d moved to his room. Cliff was leaning back in his desk chair, staring at the ceiling. Something about seeing him . . . exposed like that lessened Pax’s frustration.

Pax shrank away from the window and sat on the bed. He bit his lip and stared at the angel. “Maybe you need my playing, Cliff.”

A weak laugh. “Maybe you need my harsh commentary.”

Throat thick, Pax barely managed to swallow. “Can you hang up so I can get through to Bianca?”

The line crackled with Cliff’s sigh. “See you tomorrow for our run. And, Apollo? Tell Luca to play some Debussy.”

They hung up.

Debussy? “Clair de Lune” it would be.

Pax tried to call again, but as he suspected, the shrew had disabled the phone lines. No matter. He had a way around that involving a visit two houses down.

Henry opened his lattice-glass door with a raised brow. “Good news for me already? So much can be said for proper motivation.”

Was this how Pax sounded when he was laser-focused on achieving his goal? It sounded blunt. Bordering on callous. A trace of humor to it, but not enough to dilute the initial slap.

“I’m working on it,” Pax said, not sure whether he was addressing Henry or himself. “I need the window that looks into Bianca’s room.”

Henry’s face flushed, and he showed Pax into his upstairs room.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, leather couches, heavy wood, red velvet curtains, and a ukulele on a stand showcased in the middle of the room. Resembled a stage. Always at the ready for one of his Shakespearian come-ons.

Pax cut to the window. The distance between the houses was farther than Pax’s room to Cliff’s study, but it provided a direct view into Bianca’s room, where Bianca was pacing, papers in hand, reading aloud. Practicing lines? Her window was slightly open.

Pax shoved up Henry’s window. “Psst, Bianca.”

The distance was too far to carry the whisper, but anything louder would alert the shrew.

Pax scanned Henry’s desk for a pen and scribbled on a yellow card. A few folds later, he had a paper plane.

Henry jeered. “You’re not that suave.”

Pax aimed and let the plane fly. It sailed a half-dozen yards, hit the window, and fell to the ledge. Not quite inside, but Bianca had startled. Mission accomplished.

Shock turned into a wide grin when she caught Pax’s eye. “Read it,” he mouthed, pointing.

She fished for the plane. After reading it, her face quivered with laughter, and she nodded.

Henry glared, arms folded. “It’s enough I have competition with the Italian. Tell me you don’t have a thing for her.”

“I don’t have a thing for her.”

Henry opened and closed his mouth. Nodded once.

Pax patted him on the shoulder, reassurance it would be okay? Or a commiserating touch? An eerie feeling looking at the kid and seeing himself. “I think I’m starting to understand you.”

“You understand why Bianca would be perfect for me?”

“No, I understand why you might not win her.”

Henry pinned him with a determined look. “Lone Whistle and the Deserted.”

Pax laughed hollowly the entire trip back to Luca.

After a quick trip with Luca to pick up supplies, Pax stood between ferns at the Wilsons’ living room window chatting in hushed tones with Bianca.

He handed her a signed Christmas ball ornament with his face on it, and a poster of him, too. Merchandise the band had made this year. He’d felt off since Cliff’s earlier call—since his moment with Henry—but he had the urge to deny it. To hold on to the Pax he knew.

The Pax that adored his own face. The Pax that enjoyed others liking his face. “Hang the ball on your tree? The poster in Cliff’s room?”

She took them, nodding.

“This is for you,” Pax said, handing her a walkie-talkie. “So we can discuss without interference. Or your brother questioning the phone bill.”

Bianca’s eyes danced. She cocked her head.

Pax recognized the admiring gaze and, yeah, he still liked it. He was doomed.

“What sorcery are you crafting here?” Bianca asked softly. “Cliff’s been acting strange since the weekend.”

“More than he already is?”

Really, really doomed.

“He keeps smiling when he thinks no one is looking.”

Not what Pax expected her to say. Madly cursing, yes. But smiling?

“It’s freaking me out.”

Oh, wait. Bianca meant a wry smile. The smile of a counter-plotter. The one that kept showing up uninvited to Pax’s mind.

The kind of smile Pax was used to interpreting.

“Think nothing of it. We’ll best him, Bianca. And we’ll start with recon. Tell me any useful tidbits to help me understand what makes him tick.”

“So you can better distract him?”

“Yes. I won’t lie, a big part of me wants him to find me charming. It’s a flaw. I may or may not be working on it.”

She saluted him.

That sorted, all he had to do was practice Debussy and wait.

Thursday morning, Pax poured his soul into the piano. What soul he had, anyway. Luca described Cliff listening with an unusual concentration on his Christmas tree, and that pulled a grin from Pax.

Woe to his poor ego, nothing was said of the Christmas ornament during their run.

Maybe Pax should accept that everything didn’t revolve around him.

“You should let Henry help Bianca with her lines.” So I can seal the Lone Whistle and the Deserted deal.

Dammit.

“I mean, I only want the best for her.”

He winced at his unauthentic attempt at redeeming himself.

“You can stay with them at all times. Or maybe hang with me. Definitely hang with me.”

This tree was perfect to bang his head on.

Cliff eyed him curiously for a long time, jogging a slow, steady speed to match Pax’s. He said nothing, and Pax jogged harder to leave that failed moment in the past.

The following two runs had Pax frustrated to the bone. He was trying not to care that Cliff hadn’t mentioned all the ornaments Bianca had helped him put on the tree. But it was now Saturday, and he only had so much strength.

He waited until Cliff had pulled out the lemon muffins he baked twice a week and had headed into his study.

Pax borrowed back the walkie-talkie from Luca and asked Bianca to hand him the tray of baked goodness through the window.

Bianca hesitated. “He was ridiculously uptight about me not touching his muffins today,” she warned.

Excellent.

He took the lot. Handed passersby a muffin for the road. Left one on a napkin in Henry’s mailbox and munched on the rest with Luca in their living room.

Footsteps clomped down the hall, and Pax’s stomach clenched. He winked at Luca and turned to Cliff entering the living room with a slow smile. “You waltzed through the open door just like I wanted.”

Pax licked the last crumbs off his thumb with a cheeky smirk.

Cliff moved into the room like he owned it. He gravitated toward the piano and danced the tips of his fingers over the top of it. “You’re begging for my attention. What are you up to with my sister?”

“Why, plotting, you preppy punk.”

Cliff arched a brow. Still hadn’t found his glasses. Probably didn’t have the time to search. His thick chestnut hair cropped his head with a fringe of wildness, as though he’d forgotten to comb after his shower. He’d ditched the polo shirt and gone for a simple black one—closer to what he wore running than working at his desk. Must be laundry day. He almost passed as cool and easygoing. And . . . Pax wasn’t sure he liked it.

Cliff glanced toward the crumb-filled muffin tray on the coffee table, and folded his arms, left hand drumming his bicep.

Pax prowled to the piano and leaned against the closed lid, bringing them within a foot of each other. Luca hauled his ass off the beanbag and shot out of the room.

Cliff didn’t take his eyes off Pax. “What do you want?”

“You don’t give your sister much chance to experience life.”

“She has theatre. Girlfriends. Soccer. Every book she’s ever asked for. I drive her anywhere she wants to go or let her use my car. She can have everything but not . . .”

“Balls?”

“She’s young.”

“She’s seventeen. You and I were long devirginized at that age.”

Cliff paused. “How do you know that?”

Pax waved a hand at him from head to foot. “I’m guessing as much. The point is: maybe the best present you can give her this year is a summer romance.”

Cliff’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t comment.

Pax forged on. “You might consider gifting that to yourself as well.”

Cliff pulled his gaze away from Pax, then scoffed. “There’s time for romance later. When I’ve earned my master’s degree and found a job. When I have something decent to offer someone.”

“Decent, like what?”

“Looks won’t last forever. A shrewd mind will.”

Pax exaggerated a wince, cupped a hand at his mouth, and spoke conspiratorially. “You might want to consider using your looks before they expire, Clifford.”

Cliff studied him hard, and just when Pax thought he might fight it, relented. The faintest spark lit Cliff’s eyes. Pax caught his breath and loaded his canons again, ready to fire. “Fine,” Cliff said. “Luca may tutor Bianca, and Henry can practice lines. As long as I am in the house.”

Pax semi-relaxed against the piano. He’d figure out the logistics of his tutoring con later. For now, he’d relish in this victory. “Balls are hibited?”

“I have enough of your balls on my Christmas tree. I suppose two sets more won’t break my household.”

Pax barked out a laugh, and there, undeniably, the quirk of Cliff’s lips.

A smile that Cliff quickly tempered. “Don’t be too happy about it. You may wish I hadn’t changed my mind.”

Cliff took Pax’s hand, cool skin sliding against Pax’s warmer palm. A gentle squeeze at his knuckles preceded a pull that folded Pax toward Cliff. “You’re coming with me.”

Pax had entered many houses before. Fans and artists invited them everywhere. Doors opened easily for him and he sauntered through them.

Not so much swagger in his step now.

Cliff tightened his grip as he led Pax over his doorstep.

His feet hit polished wooden slats, and sweet shock coursed through his legs to his middle. Warm, like he’d stepped from cold into heat. Uncannily similar to holding the angel tree topper. Except the tickling power felt stronger than that.

He shivered, and Cliff abruptly let go, fingers sliding over Pax’s pinkie.

“Follow me.”

Not so fast. He wanted to take it all in. He poked his head into the infamous living room.

Pax breathed in the fresh draft from the open window.

The room was the same from this angle. Heavy gray couches, cushions all shades of blue; a large rug in the center of the room trapped under a wooden coffee table sporting a vase of magnolias; a giant Christmas tree with three ornaments hanging from its branches.

It looked the same, but it felt different. Warm and light; spiced with tree tannin, the muffins he’d poached, and a hundred other smells that had seeped into the walls over the shrew’s lifetime.

Oddly . . . comfortable.

But next to that comfort was a horrible tug in his gut. He stared at the Christmas tree and saw the one he’d picked out with his band. He couldn’t seem to dispel the image of him and his mates hefting the beast into their house. Or stop wondering how they’d decorated it.

Or when they’d message him back.

“I think you’ve seen that room enough, don’t you?” Cliff said, brow hitched.

Pax lifted his chin and tried to release the tension thrumming through him with a laugh. “Where do you want me, Shrew?”

Cliff’s gaze blasted him, and Pax shivered. His turn to swallow.

Cliff pivoted sharply and led him to a large kitchen-dining room.

Pax headed for the spacious kitchen island, its corner dusted with flour that a recent cloth had missed. He snagged a black bar stool and demanded milk. “I’ve still got lemon muffin wedged in my throat.”

The grin he gave was all minx, and Cliff had to know it.

Cliff pulled milk from the fridge and poured a glass.

Pax lurched for it, but Cliff whipped it up, and staring at him over the rim, proceeded to drink the entire thing.

Pax had an answer for that. He grabbed the milk and drank from the jug.

Cliff waited until Pax was done. Done and remotely guilty that the jug was still a quarter full.

Pax flashed him an easy smile. “Thanks.”

Cliff pulled the jug back to him, poured the remainder into his glass, and finished it. “Those muffins were for the homeless shelter.”

The . . .

Oh shit.

And he’d stuffed his face with them?

No thought to anyone but himself. Maybe this was why his only friends were the Three T’s and that guy with the banjo—

Who was he kidding? The Banjo Guy wasn’t a friend.

He shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to handle the embarrassed heat clawing up his neck. “Donating to the homeless shelter? The man-shrew has a soft side capable of loving?”

Cliff gave a knowing look, seeming to understand Pax’s reaction in blurting out a quip. “Sometimes.”

Cliff grabbed an apple-print apron hanging from the wall and rounded to Pax’s stool. He hitched the loop around his head. “I figure it’s a time of year for thinking of others. For giving.”

“For friending,” Pax added, struggling even with a wink.

Cliff gave a noncommittal hum, which pinched Pax just the way Cliff probably intended it to pinch. The shrew stepped back and the apron strings dangled over Pax’s forearms, adding to the weird skin-tingling sensations he’d had from the second he stepped into Clifford’s home.

Pax was a stone’s throw away from a warbled laugh.

Cliff reached over to the recipe stand and turned it. “There’s the recipe. Everything you need is in the cupboards.”

Cliff plucked up Contemporary Interpersonal Criminology and seated himself on the other black stool. He hunched forward to absorb every paragraph, line, word.

Making muffins? Okay. Deserved. Pax could handle it.

He rummaged through cupboards, painstakingly finding each ingredient. To mask his lingering embarrassment, he banged utensils as he prepared the mixture.

He glanced over at Cliff, repeatedly. Never once did Cliff lift his head. Pages actually turned, too, which both relieved and bugged Pax. He wanted to shake off this shitty feeling. Wanted to return to his comfort zone: being a lovable narcissist.

At least Bianca playing the piano upstairs had them synchronously wincing.

“I’ve put in too much sugar,” Pax said, finding his groove again.

Cliff lifted his head and furrowed a brow.

“Too much sugar. Your fault, not mine. I was so worked up about how sour you can be, I guess I metaphorically overcompensated on your behalf in the muffin mix.”

Cliff’s frown deepened.

Pax clarified for him. “If the muffins represent you, I added the necessary amount of sugar that is missing.”

“Do you ever have anything to say that isn’t insulting or trying to score you something?”

He rubbed his nape, smearing batter over his skin. “Not usually.”

“Work on that.”

How?

The moment Bianca breezed into the room, he clapped his textbook shut and slid off his stool. “I have to concentrate. When you poke your nose where it doesn’t belong, put everything back in its rightful place.”

Pax perked up. Cliff was giving him permission to be minxy? “You got it.”

From the end of the kitchen island, Bianca’s gaze ping-ponged between them.

“Don’t let the muffins burn.”

“That would ruin the whole extra-sugar-muffin-equals-a-better-you metaphor.”

Cliff rubbed Bianca’s arm as he passed, and a few seconds later, floorboards groaned as he hit the staircase.

Pax was already whipping off his apron. He tossed it across the island, winking at Bianca. “Do me a favor?”

“Don’t let them burn?”

“You’re a smart kid.”

She laughed, and Pax moved through the house, room by room, taking note of everything. Breathing in its comforting scents, he imagined what a young Cliff and Bianca were like.

He thoroughly investigated each room, bypassing Bianca’s and the study. One room left. Cliff’s, had to be. He pressed his hand on the cold metal doorknob, twisted—

And twisted again.

Pax rocked back on his heel, charged across the hall to the study, and burst in without knocking.

Cliff sat sloped over his desk, books piled atop each other, computer bright and humming. His back broadened on every even breath. Pencil scratched paper.

“Did you lock your bedroom door on purpose?”

Cliff continued writing.

Pax planted hands on Cliff’s shoulders and leaned down to inspect what was so riveting. His cheek grazed Cliff’s ear and Cliff stiffened. Muscles bunched under his palms, and Pax could have sworn Cliff stuttered his exhale. “Huh. That’s interesting.”

Cliff cleared his throat and spoke with convincing boredom. “What’s interesting?”

Pax smirked, cheek bumping Cliff’s. He gestured to the desk. “That How to Catch a Criminal Handbook you’re writing.” He removed his hold from Cliff’s solid shoulders and investigated the room. He stopped at the window and peered into his bedroom. It was a great view. He should do more with it.

He absently danced his fingers in a set of downward scales over the piano on his way back to the desk. An old-fashioned metal key glittered on the desk. The exact kind used for old doors.

Pax palmed the desk. “I suppose you’re hiding all kinds of secrets behind your door?”

“If you say so.” Cliff remained absorbed in his work.

Pax pulled back, key in tow, and sauntered out of the room. “I have muffins to check on.”

“One thing before you leave,” Cliff said, emerging from his study to join Pax in the hall.

Air stirred around Pax, dancing over his skin, and he molded himself to the staircase banister. “What’s that?”

“Next time I make muffins, I’m adding whole wheat flour.”

Pax was puzzled.

Cliff’s hips cocked forward as he reached into his pocket and procured an old key. Almost identical to the one in Pax’s hand. “Perhaps it’ll add the necessary amount of moral fiber that is currently missing.” Cliff glanced knowingly at his curled fist with far too much satisfaction. “Would you mind returning the key you stole to the bathroom?”

Pax didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settled on a slow clap.

Cliff pivoted on his heel and left Pax clapping. “I’ll be down in fifteen.”

Pax tromped back to the kitchen, and Bianca threw her hands in the air. “What did he do now?”

“How do you stand him being right all the time?”

“You’ve heard us fighting, right?”

Pax folded his arms. “Is there another key to his room?”

“No.” She paused. “Can you climb a trellis?”

The answer? Not easily.

But manage he did.

He hauled himself onto a narrow wooden balcony and thanked his stars the sliding door was open. He sidled inside, blinked the glare of the sun out of his eyes, and took in Cliff’s room.

It had all the usual bedroom affair: dresser, bookshelves stuffed with books and wooden bird ornaments, large gray-checkered bed, and nightstands with burgundy lampshades. Surprisingly, a TV and a cabinet of videos.

Unsurprisingly, a ginormous corkboard plastered above the bed.

The corkboard had been divided into three columns: things Cliff needed to do, was in the process of doing, or had done.

Pax tutted, smirking as he scented Cliff’s aftershave spicing the room. He followed it to the source. A porcelain bottle on the dresser. He read the label, then paused as glossy paper and the glint of glass caught his eye.

His poster. It was rolled up and tied with an elastic band, and next to it, Cliff’s first secret. His tortoiseshell glasses. No longer misplaced, then.

So why didn’t he wear them?

Pax picked up the frames, his stomach curling. He gingerly opened them and slipped them on his face. His vision blurred something shocking and he pulled them off. “Jesus, Cliff. I’m almost sympathetic.”

He set them down as he found them, unrolled the poster, and tacked it on the corkboard between the need to do and doing columns. His face looked good in the poster, unmarred by the fading bruise he was now sporting.

He scanned the room for pictures of Cliff and found no trace of vanity. Not even a mirror. Wait, there was photo on the left nightstand.

Pax rounded the bed and picked it up—

His fingers pinched the rounded edging.

The photo showed a Christmas tree topped by the magic angel, and a blurred couple embracing one another. Pax knew it was Cliff and Bianca’s parents.

The image stalled his breath.

He set the picture down and snuck back down the trellis with a thick lump in his throat.

He resumed his place in the kitchen with Bianca in time for Cliff to rejoin them without being suspicious. He swatted the sting in his eyes and pulled the steaming muffins from the oven.

“Done,” he croaked.

Cliff heard him and glanced over sharply. “Did someone steal your beloved puppy?”

Pax set the tray atop the oven, shrugging off the aching pull in his gut. “Onions.”

“What kind of muffins did you make exactly?”

Pax laughed and abruptly cut himself off. How long had it taken Cliff and Bianca to laugh again?

Stolen laughter was the worst Grinch.

Sure, Pax had an ulterior motive for befriending the shrew, but did it all have to be selfish? On his way, he could do a few unselfish acts, right? Meddle for the sake of merriment? Because these siblings needed music in their lives, and Pax Polo knew how to play.

“I have a suggestion for this afternoon,” Pax said brightly.

“I’m working this afternoon.”

Pax leaned back against the counter, tossed off the oven mittens, and folded his arms. “Come on, Cliff. Pick your battles. Say yes to this one.”

Bianca walked up behind her brother and whacked him on the arm. “He says yes.”

Cliff refocused on his sister, taking in her jubilant spirit and the hopeful dance in her eyes. He raised his hands. “Fine.” He set a wary gaze on Pax. “What have I said yes to?”