Page 23 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“Twenty minutes of ordinary massage, then. Licensed, practical, and entirely free of mystical interference.”

A muscle beneath my shoulder blade spasms hard enough to make the decision for me.

“Twenty minutes.”

Her face brightens. “Thirty.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Done.”

I point toward her. “No readings.”

“I don’t read clients without permission.”

“No comments about my energy.”

“That may be more difficult.”

“Then this isn’t happening.”

“All right.” She raises both hands. “No energy commentary.”

“And no candles.”

“The candles remain unlit.”

“No special oils.”

“I’ll use unscented.”

“No music involving chanting, bells, or ocean noises.”

Loralee’s lips twitch. “Anything else?”

“No surprises.”

For the first time since she approached the fallen sign, her demeanor becomes completely serious.

“No surprises,” she agrees.

I should feel better after establishing the terms. Instead, awareness moves through me as I imagine her hands against my bare skin and the privacy screens closing around us.

Twenty-five minutes after closing. That is all I agreed to. It is already beginning to feel like a mistake.

Chapter 5

Loralee

By nine fifteen, the festival no longer feels like the place where I spent the day. The artisan booths are closed, their displays covered or secured behind canvas walls. Music still drifts faintly from the stage while the last visitors leave through the main entrance. Battery lanterns glow inside my booth, turning the rust and cream fabric into warm pools of color. Beyond the privacy screens, the maple branches move against a dark sky.

I finish locking the final crystal case and check the time again. Rocco is twelve minutes late. It shouldn’t bother me. The man is responsible for securing an entire festival, and our agreement is not an appointment I entered into my scheduling system. He accepted twenty-five minutes of massage under duress from his own shoulder.

Still, Rocco counts everything. He knows he is late.

I am putting the unscented lotion back into the rolling cart when his footsteps approach. I recognize them before he enters the booth. They are measured and unhurried, but heavier than they were this morning.

Rocco appears between the fabric panels wearing black cargo pants and a fitted long-sleeved shirt with his company emblem over the chest. His hair has come loose from whatever held it away from his face earlier. Dark strands brush his shoulders, and fatigue has sharpened the lines around his eyes.