Page 17 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

He watches me as though revising an assessment.

“Most people defend themselves first,” he says.

“I have many flaws. That one became exhausting.”

The corner of his mouth almost moves. “Only one?”

“I’m saving the others for later.”

He looks at the massage table once more, then steps through the open screen.

“Your booth passes inspection.”

“That sounded reluctant.”

“The shelving needed reinforcement.”

“Which you provided.”

“The privacy screens still require another weight on the western side.”

“I have one in the vehicle.”

“I’ll get it.”

“You have employees waiting.”

“They can wait two minutes.”

I watch him walk toward the parking area. His right hand flexes once at his side, and the injured shoulder remains slightly lower than the left. He is hurting more than he wants me to know, but pain is not the only thing he carried into my booth.

There is guilt inside him. Old, controlled, and bound so tightly to duty that separating one from the other may no longer be possible. I sensed it when he spoke about responsibility and again when he told the vendors not to intervene in an altercation.

He does not simply prepare for danger. Some part of him is still answering for one that has already happened.

Rocco returns with the final weight and secures it without comment. When he straightens, I hold out a small tumbled stone. Pale pink. Smooth. Ordinary enough to fit inside his palm.

He looks at it but doesn’t take it. “What is that?”

“Rose quartz.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Nothing. Keep it in your pocket. Put it on a shelf. Throw it at someone violating an emergency lane.”

His mouth twitches. “I have better equipment for that.”

“It’s associated with emotional healing, trust, and compassion.”

“I don’t need emotional healing.”

“That wasn’t a diagnosis.”

“It sounded like one.”

“It’s a gift.”

“No.”