Page 15 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“Your face isn’t visible,” I add.

“Leave it.”

I glance back at him. “Are you sure?”

“It’s your video.”

“That sounds dangerously flexible.”

“I can still change my mind.”

I save the recording.

As the light fades, I finish the central display. Crystals rest on linen-covered platforms at different heights rather than in straight retail rows. Small cards identify each stone and describe its traditional associations without promising miracles.

A framed copy of my Colorado massage-therapy license sits beside the treatment menu. It’s less mystical than the crystals, but considerably more important whenever I offer hands-on work.

The flower essences occupy amber bottles near the front, where customers can read the ingredients. Oils are sealed, labeled, and arranged in a wooden case.

Rocco inspects everything. He checks the lantern batteries, the cord, the cable ramp, the weighted privacy screens, and the distance between my fabric and electrical outlet. He tests the stability of the tallest shelf by placing one hand against it and applying enough pressure to concern me.

He adjusts one of the brackets. When he reaches behind the shelf, his jacket pulls across his shoulders. His hair falls forward, exposing the sharp line of one cheekbone and the darker shadow along his jaw.

He is beautiful in a way that doesn’t feel polished. Too severe for that. His face has been shaped by weather, discipline, and decisions he does not discuss. A narrow scar cuts through one eyebrow. Another scar disappears beneath the dark hair near his temple.

The intensity I sensed in him has not diminished. It has become more complicated. Rocco straightens and discovers me looking at him.

“What?”

“Your shelf assessment appears thorough.”

“You weren’t looking at the shelf.”

“No.”

His eyes hold mine. Silence gathers between us, teasing at the edges of something unnamed but very real. My pulse beats faster beneath the pendants resting against my chest.

Rocco’s gaze drops there. Not to my jewelry this time.

Heat moves through me so swiftly that I almost step back. I don’t. There is something powerful about being looked at by a man who notices everything yet reveals almost nothing. His attention feels chosen rather than careless.

Then the muscles around his injured shoulder tighten. The moment breaks.

“You’re hurting,” I say.

“I’m fine.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It’s close enough.”

“Not to your nervous system.”

He moves toward the privacy screens. I follow as he parts the fabric and steps into the treatment area. The portable massage table stands beneath the maple branches, covered with a thick cream-colored sheet and a folded rust-colored blanket. A small rolling cart holds sealed oils, towels, sanitizer, and several crystals. Battery lanterns cast a soft glow against the screens.

The space feels private despite the voices and occasional crashes beyond the fabric. Tomorrow, I will add music low enough to soothe without interfering with awareness of the festival around us.

Rocco checks beneath the table and examines the braces. I watch him closely, knowing he’s curious.