Page 8 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“What is the table for?”

“Private sessions.”

I look at the padded surface and then at her.

Amusement warms her eyes. “Not that kind.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your energy did.”

“My energy doesn’t speak for me.”

“It has a great deal to say.”

I lift the table again, using my left arm to take more of the weight. “Where?”

She points toward the back corner beneath the maple tree. “There, please.”

I carry it into the booth and set it against the low timber fence. The ache in my shoulder spreads toward my neck, but it will loosen once I move around. It always does.

Loralee places her boxes beside the table. “Old injury?”

“No.”

“That answer arrived very quickly.”

I turn toward her. She stands close enough that I can smell something warm and faintly herbal beneath the cold mountain air. Orange, maybe. Clove. Her cardigan hangs open over a fitted black shirt, and several pendants rest against the soft curve of her breasts. One is shaped like a crescent moon. Another holds a stone the same green as her eyes.

There is nothing fragile about her. She has a softly feminine body, beautiful hands, and the self-possession of a woman comfortable taking up exactly the space she occupies. My body notices all of it.

“You should finish unloading,” I tell her.

“You finished it for me.”

She smiles as though she has won something. “Thank you, Rocco.”

The directness catches me off guard. No teasing. No mystical observation. Just gratitude offered in a way that makes leaving feel more abrupt than it should.

I nod toward her booth. “Security briefing at six. Vendor pavilion.”

“I’ll be there.”

“On time.”

Her bracelets chime as she places one hand over her heart. “Mystic’s honor.”

“That’s a new one I’ve never heard.”

“First time for everything, Rocco.”

I can’t suppress a grin and her laugh follows me as I walk away. I make it thirty yards before looking back. Loralee is watching me. She doesn’t turn away when our eyes meet. Neither do I.

A radio call from the eastern entrance breaks the moment. I press the button at my shoulder and continue toward the soundstage.

“Rocco.”

“Go ahead.”