Page 24 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

“You’re late,” I say.

“Thirteen minutes.”

His gaze moves over the closed displays. “Everything secured?”

“The cash box is locked in my vehicle. The high-value crystals are in locked cases, and nothing containing personal information remains in the booth.”

“The rear panel?”

“Fastened from inside.”

He checks it anyway.

I fold my arms. “Do you inspect hotel rooms before sleeping in them?”

“Yes,” he says, with no humor.

Rocco returns to the treatment area and looks at the massage table as if it has been waiting to interrogate him. The cream sheet is fresh. An additional blanket rests near the foot, and the battery lanterns provide enough light for me to work without creating the clinical brightness he likely expects.

There are no candles, scented oils, crystals, bells, chanting, or ocean sounds. I gesture toward the chair beside the table.

“Sit.”

His eyes narrow.

“For the intake,” I explain. “Not everything I say is a command.”

“Most of it sounds like one.”

“You respond better to direct language.”

“I respond when necessary.”

“Sit down, Rocco.”

He sits.

I take the clipboard from the cart and settle into the chair opposite him. His knees nearly touch mine in the small space. Proximity amplifies everything about him. I instantly notice the heat of his body and the fatigue beneath his control.

“Before I touch you, I need information,” I say. “When did the shoulder injury occur?”

“Several years ago.”

“What happened?”

His jaw hardens. “Vehicle rollover.”

“Were you driving?”

“No.”

I lower my eyes to the form. “What was injured?”

“Right shoulder. Torn rotator cuff. Partially dislocated. Two fractured ribs and a collarbone fracture.”

The list is delivered without emotion. His body does not share the same detachment.

“Did you have surgery?”