Page 7 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

LORALEE TILSBY

Her business name is printed beneath it in smaller lettering.

LUNAR LIGHT HEALING

I set the case on the ground beside her folding table. “Leave the lane clear from now on.”

“I thought we established that.”

“We established that you moved your vehicle after being told twice.”

Her mouth curves. “Do you always count everything?”

“Yes.”

She removes the credential and untangles the cord from one of her braids. Her hair is darker near the roots, with pale gold woven through its length. Small silver leaves are tucked into the loose strands, although I can’t determine whether they are clips, jewelry, or another item with alleged energetic properties.

I expect the silver leaves to make her look whimsical to the point of absurdity. Instead, they accentuate the warm gold threaded through her hair and leave me staring at the soft curve of her neck longer than any security assessment requires.

“I’m Loralee,” she says.

“I read the badge.”

“That isn’t the same as introducing yourself.”

“Rocco.”

Her eyes meet mine again. Green, with flecks of amber catching the late-afternoon light. Her demeanor changes with satisfaction, as though my name confirms information she already possessed.

“Rocco,” she repeats.

My name sounds different in her voice. Softer and more intimate than one word spoken between strangers has any right to sound.

I look toward her vehicle rather than ask why she seems pleased. “What else needs moving?”

“All of it.”

“That wasn’t an offer.”

“Then you shouldn’t have asked.”

I return to the parking area. She follows, reaching the rear hatch as I pull out a second folding table.

“You don’t need to unload everything,” she says.

“I need this area cleared before the next vendor arrives.”

She pauses for an uncomfortable and awkward few seconds, then lifts two smaller boxes to carry toward her booth. I remove the remaining tables, the padded crystal cases, and a narrow wooden shelving unit wrapped in blankets. When I reach for the portable massage table, the weight shifts unexpectedly and pulls at my right shoulder.

Pain catches beneath my shoulder blade. Sharp at first, then familiar. I lower the table before the reaction reaches my face. Loralee stops several feet away. Her attention moves to my shoulder.

I straighten. “Where do you want this?”

“Inside the privacy screens.”

“The screens aren’t up.”

“They will be.”