Page 11 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“Most people who need something don’t crave to hear it.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” she says softly. “You aren’t.”

The pavilion has nearly emptied. Outside, evening settles over the festival grounds. Strings of lights glow between the trees, turning the leaves overhead to copper and gold. Loralee’s face is half-shadowed, but her eyes remain bright.

I should return to the perimeter inspection. My team is waiting for final assignments, and Booth 37 still requires a safety review.

That is why I ask, “Are you finished setting up?”

“Not quite.”

“I need to inspect your booth.”

“Tonight?”

“Before opening.”

“Are all the vendors receiving private inspections?”

“The ones with fabric walls, electrical equipment, oils, candles, and a massage table are.”

“My candles are not open flame.”

“I’ll verify that.”

“And the massage table?”

My gaze moves over her face. Loralee steps closer. The silver bracelets at her wrist make a quiet sound, although she is otherwise perfectly still.

“That may require a more thorough inspection,” she says.

Heat moves through me. It’s swift, unwelcome, and impossible to mistake. Her expression remains innocent for approximately one second. Then she smiles.

I look toward the exit. “Show me the booth.”

She walks beside me into the autumn night, close enough that her cardigan brushes my hand. I don’t move away.

By the time we reach booth 37, my shoulder has tightened into a hard, steady pulse. Loralee looks at it once, then toward the massage table waiting behind her privacy screen. Her smile changes. I’m wondering who’s inspecting who.

Chapter 3

Loralee

By the time we reach my booth, Rocco’s shoulder has tightened enough that I can feel the discomfort coming off him. Not as pain exactly. Other people’s physical sensations rarely transfer that clearly unless I’m touching them. This registers as resistance, like a hard knot of energy held beneath layers of discipline and determination.

He glances toward my massage table. I expect him to make another comment. As a distraction, I hand him my phone.

“Hold this.”

He looks down at it but makes no move to take it. “Why?”

“I need to record the booth before the light disappears.”

“You haven’t finished setting up.”

“I’m documenting the transformation.”