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before we start shooting on Friday. When she’s done, she’ll bring you over to Rick for costume fittings.” He checked the battered watch on his wrist. “We’ve got about an hour and a half before the light and sound crew show up, so let’s have him at Camera One no later than nine, okay?”
    “Got it,” Fiona responded, lifting her coffee cup in salute before setting it on the workstation counter.  
    Wes winked at her and, with an encouraging wave from her father, the two men left her alone with Declan once more.
    She cleared her throat, hating the nerves frolicking in her stomach, like butterflies on acid. “So.”
    “So. Time for a haircut?” Declan grinned, and there were those crinkles again.  
    Sexy crinkles, she thought, then shook herself. “You got it.”
    Sticking a pair of scissors in her back pocket, she moved behind him, focusing on the ebony curls she was about to send falling to the trailer floor. Her fingers tangled there, just above his nape, finding cool dampness at the roots left over from his morning shower. Without thinking, she glanced toward the mirror.
    Declan stared at her, their gazes meeting with a bang of invisible sensation that vibrated through her arms like a shockwave. The hands in his hair clenched of their own volition, and she watched as his lips parted and a pink flush washed over his fair cheeks. All at once, she wanted to apologize and back away, worry fighting with the idiotic attraction springing to life within her.
    I want to misbehave .
    Nope, not happening. She snagged the scissors and a comb and began cutting. Curl after silky curl drifted away, until she could see his nape, the shape of his ears. Short minutes later, what had once been a shaggy mess was now a more modern take on a Byronic crop.
    “Like it?” she asked.
    “Like it,” he confirmed, shaking his head to watch the shortened strands move against his scalp. He smiled again.
    He had to stop smiling at her. Needing a moment to repress her instinctive reaction to that smile, she finished the coffee that had gone mostly cold before starting in again. A brow trimmer tamed the most unruly aspects of his thick black brows, tweezers shaping the arches into something elegant yet still very masculine.  
    “Quick thinking, by the way,” he murmured. “I’m impressed.”
    “Thanks for rolling with it.” A blast of air from an aerosol can on the counter cleared the stray strands lingering on his face and neck.
    “I’m an actor, darlin’. You probably could’ve slugged me, and I’d have gone along with it.”
    “Hitting you is the last thing I want to do.” Astringent cleaned the surface oils from his face, and soon he was looking up at her with an expression that seemed almost…expectant. Her skin prickled in awareness, but she turned her attention to the prosthetic on the counter, unwilling to let her mind drift to where his surely was.
    I want to misbehave .
    Based on measurements of Christopher Lunsford’s features, Fiona had created a mold and cast the fresh silicone scar on Saturday. That scar sat ready to go on the transfer-paper backing she’d prepared prior to Declan’s arrival in the trailer this morning. She lifted it, turned to him, and laid the scar precisely across his forehead before dampening the transfer with a sponge. “Have you ever worn a fake scar for a production before?”
    “No.”
    “It shouldn’t itch. If it does, let me know—I’ll either reapply or cast one from a different material.” She slowly peeled back the transfer paper. “It won’t move perfectly with your facial muscles, not exactly. Kind of like a real scar.”
    Fiona knew a thing or two about real scars.
    She studied the way the scar split his face in two, from his left temple across his forehead and down to his right cheekbone. “Scrunch your forehead for me, please.”  
    He did, brows drawn, eyes narrowed but still trained on her. His gaze fairly battered her, a knockout punch of heat with every