Snowflakes don’t make any sound. Like a first kiss. That must be why they feel the same against your skin.

Robert stared up at the thickly falling snow illuminated by the Victorian-style streetlight, the iron pole wrapped in a garland and red velvet bow. Earlier today, he hadn’t thought to test Ange’s assertion, but at this late hour, with no foot traffic and the storefronts cloaked in hushed silence, he found himself listening to the snow. Comparing how it felt, falling on his upturned face, to all the kisses he’d had in his life. As well as the kisses he might want in the future.

Even though they’re silent, you can still hear something. The way you can hear somebody holding their breath.

It made sense that one of Ange’s quirky observations would cross his mind right now. He’d collected a lot of them since the boy had started working for him nearly six months ago. After all, he’d made a hell of an impression, applying for the job while flat on his ass in garbage and bleeding profusely.

On that sticky June night, Robert had heard a noise behind the dumpster in the alley next to his vintage toy shop. Setting aside the trash he’d been taking out, he picked up the baseball bat he kept inside the back door. Not one of his 1920s Louisville sluggers, just a made-in-China piece of crap, but still solid wood. When he peered around the steel container and saw a blood trail on the cobblestones, he followed it to a pair of legs in ripped jeans.

He was confronted with a shock of dirty white-gold hair atop a long, lean form in a thin T-shirt. Someone had worked the guy over—his nose was bleeding all over the fabric. But he was holding the broken skyhook Robert had reluctantly tossed after he’d knocked it off a shelf. It was a jockey on a horse, perched on the top of a stand. When it sat on a table, the counterweight ball made the horse rock, so it looked like it was running.

In Victorian times, people couldn’t get enough of toys that used the law of gravity to do what seemed impossible, magical, and his modern-day patrons were no different. He had a whole shelf of balance toys from that era.

At Robert’s appearance, the kid, mid-twenties maybe, had held up the toy as if he didn’t have one eye swelling shut, a busted lip, and what was definitely a broken nose. Robert had done a couple tours in Afghanistan. Between that and boxing at the local gym for his daily workout, he was very familiar with the look.

“I fixed it, sir,” the young man said earnestly. And he had. He’d hinged the arm back in place on the jockey’s side, and fixed the snapped stand using tape he’d probably fished out of the trash. “It’s temporary, but I can solder the stand and re-attach the arm with wood glue. No one will even know it was broken. I’m good at fixing things people don’t think to fix.”

Robert squatted on his haunches. Putting his fingers on the man’s jaw to hold him still, he took a closer look at the damage. At his touch, his unsolicited applicant went quite still, except for a significant quiver that hit Robert in the gut, particularly when he lowered lashes as white-gold as his hair.

“What’s your name?”

“Ange.” He pronounced it in the French manner, so that the an sounded like own and the ge a soft ssh, like a mother’s gentle reproof.

“French for angel.” Robert tried for a smile but failed. The harm to Ange’s face must have been done with more than one pair of fists. It made his hand want to close in a similar position. Looking at the guileless eyes and sensitive mouth, he knew this kid had done nothing to warrant it except be what he was. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

“I’m okay. I don’t need a hospital. I need a job. Sir.” Ange held up the toy. “Since the North Pole layoffs, things have been rough. I’m just glad I found you before the other elves did.”

Robert’s lips twisted. Funny bastard. Odd fellow, obviously all in his head. Until he looked at Robert and said Sir. Then he was a hundred percent there.

“You have a lot of metal toys, trains, things where gears get stuck. I can unjam them. I can dust everything, keep it all looking good. Everyone hates to dust. You don’t have to pay me much. A cot in a back room and enough to buy my lunch. Don’t pay me at all until you’re sure I’m worth a salary.”

Robert put a quelling hand over his. He had slim, elegant fingers, like a pianist. Thank goodness whoever had beaten on him hadn’t noticed that. The knuckles were scraped, though. Ange had fought back. That, and the stubborn jut of his jaw, told Robert he’d gone down fighting. It sent a twinge to his groin, because he liked a sub with fire. Jesus.

“We’ll talk about that later. Hospital first.”

“I don’t—”

“You’re going.” Robert gave him a hard look. “Got it?”

He wasn’t sure what made him test those waters. For Chrissakes, he’d almost said You’re going because I said so. The vibe Ange put out was so strong he couldn’t resist it. He’d hung up the paddle, hadn’t taken on a new sub since . . . since everything had shut down. But apparently his desire to take charge, exert control, figure out the right combination to win willing surrender, wasn’t as dead as he thought. And it was coming back to life with an injured homeless man. How desperate was that?

Then the kid delivered a sucker punch in return, making it even worse. Like a switch flipped, the green eyes skittered down to Robert’s chest, focused on his dark blue bowtie. “Yes, sir,” he muttered.

Robert gave his jaw a reproving tap. “What was that?”

“Yes, sir,” Ange said more respectfully, with a quick glance up. When his fingers slipped out from under Robert’s and caressed his wrist with a shy touch, a spark flickered, reminding Robert what it was to want.

That touch dared him to be a Master once more.