Page 112 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

I look toward Chloe. “Could I have a few minutes?”

Her face softens. “Of course.”

Ava kisses my cheek before guiding Harper toward the door. Ethan waits for his wife, his hand finding the small of her back when she reaches him. Chloe is the last to leave.

“Rocco is on the private terrace,” she says. “He isn’t supposed to see you yet, but I have never been overly committed to rules that make brides unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy.”

“No. You’re overwhelmed.”

I smile. “You’ve been spending too much time around me.”

“Go see your groom.”

The private deck extends from the opposite side of the bridal cabin. When I open the door, cold air slips beneath the delicate sleeves of my dress. Aspen leaves tremble overhead, filling the afternoon with a quiet, silvery sound.

Rocco stands at the railing with his back to me. His black suit fits the breadth of his shoulders perfectly. The dark green tie was my choice, although he rejected the first three shades before selecting one he claimed did not make him look like part of the landscaping.

He turns. For once, the man who notices everything appears completely unprepared. His eyes move from the crown in my hair to the embroidered vines trailing down my dress. The intensity of his gaze reaches me across the terrace, familiar enough to warm me and powerful enough to make my knees feel less dependable.

“You’re not supposed to see me before the ceremony,” I say.

Rocco continues looking at me. “I didn’t arrange this.”

“No. Chloe did.”

“Then I’ll thank her.”

He steps forward, but instead of touching me immediately, he stops within reach. A year has not changed that part of him. Even now, with his ring waiting beside mine and our guests gathering beyond the trees, Rocco gives me the space to choose the final distance.

I place my hands against his chest. His arms close around me. The noise inside my mind quiets.

I rest my forehead against his chest and breathe. The energy gathering across the property presses against the edge of my awareness. I feel anticipation, joy, memories of other weddings, and emotions carried here by people who love us.

A year ago, I might have tried to sort through every sensation until I knew which belonged to me. Today, I let them exist without inviting them inside.

Rocco’s hand moves slowly along my spine. “Tell me what you need.”

“You.”

His arms tighten.

“And three minutes,” I add. “Possibly four.”

“I cleared fifteen.”

I lift my head. “From our wedding schedule?”

“Chloe built in twenty.”

“She really does understand us.”

Rocco guides me toward the cushioned bench. He removes his jacket before sitting. Then he draws me down across his lap, arranging the skirt around us with unexpected patience.

Months ago, I told him I had always wanted a partner willing to explore Tantric practices with me. I expected questions and the skeptical attitude he once reserved for crystals, auras, and anything the human eye cannot verify.

Instead, he asked what he needed to learn. The answer became something we discovered together.