I go to get the scissors while Killian pulls up a kitchen chair to sit on.

His big, lean body is as tense as a guitar string when I return. In the light of the sinking sun, his skin is a deep honey-gold, shadows playing along the dips and valleys of his muscled torso. My steps slow as though I can draw out the inevitable by taking as long as I can to stand before him. But I can’t avoid this without saying why I want to. And there’s not a chance of me doing that.

I’m all business as I set down my scissors, comb, and a stiff brush for flicking away small, cut hairs. Killian’s dark eyes track my moves, his expression far too controlled. Does this bother him too? It appears to. But for the same reasons? Or maybe he’s worried I’ll make a move on him?

I want to laugh. When did it get so complicated?

“You want to wear this so hair doesn’t get all over you?” I ask, holding up a plastic cape I brought with me.

He gives a shake of the head. “I’m too hot already.”

True that.

I clear my throat. “What style would you like?”

He looks at me as if I’ve spoken in Greek. “Style?”

“Ah, yeah. That’s kind of important, since it affects how you look.”

He shrugs. “Do what you want.”

I lift my scissors. “So…mullet.” I nod. “You’ll look hot. Very nineteen-eighty-five. Maybe I can persuade you into a mustache as well.”

“Har.” His nose wrinkles. “Fine. Cut it short.”

Really, it’s like pulling teeth.

“A Channing Tatum maybe?”

One dark brow quirks.

“You know, Magic Mike?”

Killian flashes a grin. “Of all his movies, you pick that one? Shocker.”

“Shut up.” Slapping his shoulder, I move around to the back of his head and try to comb out the tangles. “You totally acted like you didn’t know who he was.”

Killian snorts. “Know him? We’ve hung out a couple of times. Just wanted to find out how you saw him.”

“Well, now you know. Half naked and gyrating.”

Though I can only see the crest of his cheek, I know he’s making a face. I find myself grinning. Resting my hand on his warm shoulder, I lean around to catch his eye. “You never answered.”

He stares at me for a beat, then blinks and clears his throat. “Hack it off.”

“Channing it is.”

There it is again, that regal expression of disdain he manages so well when offended, his dark brows lifting just a touch, his nostrils pinching as if he smells something off. “You’re giving me the Killian James cut, babe, and don’t you forget it.”

I go to work on the back of his hair. “Arrogant, aren’t we?”

“A man who names his hairstyle after another man isn’t much of a man.”

Long locks of silky, mahogany hair fall to the floor. “If you say so.”

We fall quiet, which is a mistake. Because now I can’t help but notice how close I’m standing to him, or the feel of my fingers threading through his heavy hair, and my breasts hovering by his temple when I move to his side.

I should be immune to Killian by now. I really should. But aside from last night’s freak-out, I’ve never been this near him for a sustained amount of time. The heat of his skin has a scent—indefinable but luscious. My mouth waters, and I have to swallow hard so I don’t drool on him like some creeper. His breathing has a rhythm and sound that holds my attention.

Agitation. I hear it. I feel it. Agitation surrounds us. It messes with my concentration, and I find myself hacking at his hair, cutting fast and loose. Luckily, he’s asked for a short style, and I can fix what I’ve done. Biting my lip, I focus on my task and ignore him.

Or try to.

The more I cut away, the more his strong bone structure is revealed. Killian looked damn fine with long hair. Short? He’s a work of art. With his high cheekbones, squared-off jaw, and strong nose, he’d almost look too hard if it wasn’t for his pretty eyes.

My mouth twitches as I think about telling him he has pretty eyes. He’d hate that.

“What’s so funny?” His husky voice snares my attention.

“Nothing.” I carefully shape around his ears.

“Libby…”

He won’t let this go. He’s like a tick that way.

“I was just thinking that you have pretty eyes,” I mutter, face flaming.

He makes a gurgled sort of sound. “You flirting with me, Libs?”

I don’t meet his gaze. “Stating a fact. And you know they’re pretty.”

Those dark eyes watch me as I finish the basic shape of his haircut. “I know nothing,” he says softly.

Our gazes finally meet. We’re about a foot apart, and the air between us is hot and damp. It’s a struggle to breathe, a struggle not to look away. In the background, evening cicadas hum. Killian swallows hard, searching my gaze for some sign. I don’t know what to say. Every memory of all the awkward, bumbling encounters I’ve had with attractive men surges forward. I’m utter crap at this stuff.

Blinking, I stand straight and run my fingers through his hair. I’ve left it a little longer at the top. “I just have to shape this bit and you’re done.” My voice sounds thick and uneven.

“Okay,” he says in a voice just as rough.

I frown at myself as I trim. This exercise in torture needs to end before I do something stupid. I step between his thighs to finish off the front of his hair. Mistake. He’s now only inches away from my chest.

Killian’s shoulders go stiff. I swear he stops breathing. Or maybe I do. Silence falls over us just as the cicada song ends. Neither of us moves or says a word.

And then everything changes.

It doesn’t matter that it’s barely a graze of his fingers against my shirt, the second he touches me, my body tenses, then vibrates like a tuning fork struck. I pause a beat, breath halting before escaping in a silent rush. The scissors hesitate then snip through his hair with a loud snick. The tips of his fingers gently press against the dividing line between my shorts and shirt, holding me steady as I sway a little.

I close my eyes for a second. I could move away, tell him to get off. But I don’t. That small yet significant touch sends heat and need throbbing through me, and it feels so good, I almost whimper. I swallow hard and continue to cut his hair, less steady now but determined to finish the job well.