Page 18 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

The refusal is immediate but not cruel. I curl my fingers around the stone.

“All right.”

“You’re not going to tell me I’ll change my mind?”

“I don’t have to.”

Rocco looks at me for another long moment. Then he nods once and leaves my booth. I remain beneath the maple tree, listening to his footsteps fade into the sounds of festival preparation. The rose quartz warms inside my closed hand.

He said no to the stone. He said no to the massage table. He has built his life around refusing anything that might reach beneath his defenses.

But the universe did not bring me to Cady Springs to force open a locked door. It brought me here because, eventually, Rocco is going to unlock it himself.

Chapter 4

Rocco

Iapprove booth 37 at 7:42 p.m. Wednesday evening and spend the next ten hours failing to put its owner out of my mind. Loralee’s booth meets every safety requirement. The electrical equipment is rated for outdoor use. Her products are labeled. The fabric is secured, the shelves are stable, and her Colorado massage-therapy license is displayed where clients can see it. Even the portable table I inspected more thoroughly than necessary is professional-grade equipment with locking braces and an adjustable headrest.

Nothing about the booth requires further attention. Its owner does.

I arrive at the park before sunrise. Overnight security reports no incidents beyond two teenagers attempting to climb the fence near the stage and a raccoon discovering the kettle-corn supplies. The teenagers ran. The raccoon did not and required more negotiation.

By six thirty, my team has completed a full perimeter sweep. Vendor entrances open at seven. The public arrives at nine.

Loralee enters at seven nineteen wearing dark jeans, boots, and a long cream cardigan beneath a rust-colored coat. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders today, the gold sections almost pale beneath the cold morning light. She carries a covered tray in one hand and a canvas bag over the opposite shoulder.

She is nineteen minutes later than most vendors. She is also forty-one minutes early for the time printed in her instructions. I watch her present her credential at the entrance before I walk over.

“You’re early,” I say.

She looks toward the clock mounted above the pavilion doors. “The festival does not open until nine.”

“Vendor readiness inspection begins at eight.”

“My booth passed inspection last night.”

“I remember.”

Her eyes brighten with amusement. “Did it remain on your mind?”

“The inspection is documented.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

A cold breeze moves through the park, carrying the scent of coffee, damp leaves, and woodsmoke from somewhere beyond the festival boundary. Loralee’s hair blows across her face. She tucks it behind one ear, revealing a small silver crescent hanging from it. I notice the movement longer than I should.

She lifts the tray. “I brought breakfast.”

“For me?”

“For myself. Boundaries are important.”

I look at the size of the tray. “That’s a great deal of breakfast.”

“I need recovery food between appointments. Ava packed muffins, cinnamon rolls, and several items she claims contain protein.”

“What does that mean?”