The sky, though beautiful in its waves of tentative blue and creamy, whipped cream squirts for clouds, was not nearly as interesting as Sly's attention made it out to be. Eyeballing the heavens, his gaze trailing after the misty contrails, it became a point of fascination only because it offered a relief from the alternative: Ronan.

Six foot tall, gorgeous in the kind of way that had model agencies beckoning their greedy little fingers, and an attitude that would have knocked the tiara off of any diva's head, his best friend was uncharacteristically quiet.

It wasn't so much as he couldn't feel the burn of Ronan's nervous gaze against the...