Page 6 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

There it is again … that immovable, grounded force from the vision.

Mountains.

Autumn.

A man with very stubborn energy.

Unable to control the recognition of it all, I find myself smiling. His gaze drops briefly to my mouth and returns to my eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“The universe has a sense of humor.”

His attention moves over my boxes of oils, candles, and carefully padded crystals. Whatever warmth appeared in his face disappears beneath obvious suspicion.

“What are you selling?”

“Balance.”

He looks at the overloaded vehicle, the table wedged between two boxes, and the bundle of rosemary hanging from the rear handle.

“You may want to keep some for yourself.”

He carries the folding table toward Booth 37, then returns and lifts the heaviest crystal case as though it weighs nothing.

“Vehicle,” he reminds me.

I stand beside my open hatch for one more second, watching him walk away.

The universe has sent me the same message four times in seventeen days. It might have warned me that the stubborn man would be infuriating and very sexy.

Chapter 2

Rocco

The woman with sunlight braided through her hair is a problem. Not because she ignored the unloading instructions printed in bold across three separate pages of the vendor packet. Half the vendors have ignored those. One drove onto the grass twenty minutes ago and nearly backed over a decorative barrel filled with pumpkins. Another demanded to know why his propane tanks could not be stored beneath a fabric-covered table. Those are ordinary problems that are predictable and solvable.

This woman looks at me as if she recognizes me. It’s strange. But it’s also intriguing because there’s a part of me that wants to know more about her. A lot more.

I carry her folding table toward booth 37 while she finally moves her vehicle out of the emergency lane. The frame weighs almost nothing, but the case I retrieve next is deceptively heavy. A label tied to the handle identifies its contents as ethically sourced quartz clusters.

I don’t know what makes quartz ethical. I know the woman selling it has packed enough into one case to injure herself if she tries lifting it again.

Her tires crunch across the gravel behind me. She parks in the designated vendor area and returns at a quick pace, her long cardigan moving around her legs. Silver bracelets slide down one wrist when she reaches for the case.

“I can take that.”

“I already have it.”

“It’s heavier than it looks.”

“I noticed.”

Her gaze travels over me, pausing at the shoulder supporting most of the weight. The inspection is quick but too perceptive. I adjust my grip and carry the case beneath the white canopy marking her assigned space.

The laminated credential hanging from her neck turns as she follows me.