Idol (VIP 1)

I crack open an eye. “About?”

He’s focused on his guitar, idly playing the song he’s been composing. “I have been hiding away.”

The confession falls like a stone in a pond. The ripples of it wash over me, and I sit up just to gain some footing.

Killian shakes his head slowly. “I see that look, Libs. I didn’t mean I was using you as a distraction. But I have been avoiding going back. After I found Jax, everything felt like a lie.” His hand smooths over the curve of his guitar. “Playing with you, I remembered. Music is real.”

“Always will be,” I rasp, then clear my throat. “I’m glad you remembered.”

His fingers tighten around the guitar neck, his body leaning forward as if he’s about to rise. “You woke me back up, Libby. You have to know that.”

I have no idea what to say. I duck my head, the heat and humidity getting to me. “You would’ve found your way without me. Music is too much a part of you to be denied for long.”

“Maybe.” He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. When he finally talks, his voice sounds pained. “I have to go back.”

My fingers dig into the couch cushion. “When?”

“We’re going on tour in the fall.”

One small sentence, and I’m ripped open. It isn’t easy keeping my reply even, but I manage it. “It’ll be good for you guys. And your fans will be so happy.”

“Happy,” he says. “Yeah, I guess they will be.” Killian scowls at some distant point and runs a hand through his hair, only to have his fingers snag in the long strands. He mutters a few choice words before leaning back against the chair he’s sitting in front of.

“I can cut your hair.” What am I saying? I’ll have to get close to him to do it. Not smart. But the tension between us is all wrong, too thick and awkward. I don’t know if we’re fighting or about to combust.

Maybe he thinks the same, because he frowns a little. “You know how to cut hair?”

“Cut my dad’s. Still have the scissors.” Shut up and get while the getting’s good.

Killian sets down his guitar. “All right. That’d be great.”

He sounds as strained as I feel. Such a stupid idea. But I’m stuck in it now.

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.”