3. Chapter 3
Loralee
By the time we reach my booth, Rocco’s shoulder has tightened enough that I can feel the discomfort coming off him.
Not as pain exactly. Other people’s physical sensations rarely transfer that clearly unless I’m touching them.
This registers as resistance, like a hard knot of energy held beneath layers of discipline and determination.
He glances toward my massage table. I expect him to make another comment. As a distraction, I hand him my phone.
“Hold this.”
He looks down at it but makes no move to take it. “Why?”
“I need to record the booth before the light disappears.”
“You haven’t finished setting up.”
“I’m documenting the transformation.”
Rocco looks from the phone to the collection of boxes, folded fabric, display shelves, and crystal cases surrounding us.
Behind him, the setting sun spills amber light across the mountains.
The festival lights have begun glowing and the maple above my booth has turned almost translucent around the edges.
The light is perfect, but Rocco is not being cooperative.
“My followers enjoy behind-the-scenes videos,” I explain. “It allows them to feel included.”
“In what?”
“My process.”
“Your process currently involves ordering a security contractor to hold your phone.”
“I said please.”
“You didn’t.”
I consider that. “Please, Rocco.”
He suppresses a smile as he takes the phone from my hand. Rocco positions it and waits. I step beneath the canopy, smooth the front of my rust-colored wrap, and adjust the strands of hair that escaped my braid during unloading.
“Ready?”
“You tell me.”
“The red button begins recording.”
“I know what the red button does.”
His tone suggests he regrets every decision that brought him to my booth. His energy says otherwise. Beneath the irritation is interest that’s becoming harder for him to hide. I smile directly at the camera.
“Hello, beautiful souls. I’ve arrived in Cady Springs for the Autumn Festival, and this setting is even more magical than I expected.”
Rocco’s gaze remains on the phone screen. Behind him, a vendor drops something metal. The crash echoes across the grounds, followed by several words that will not complement my video. I wait until the noise ends.
“We’re going to try that again,” I say.
“We?”
“You’re part of the creative team now.”
“I’m holding your phone.”
“Every role matters.”
I begin again, introducing the festival while Rocco records. I show my followers the maple tree, the mountain view, and the quiet garden behind the booth. Then I walk him through the setup as I begin transforming the bare white canopy into Lunar Light Healing.
The first layer consists of rust, cream, and deep green fabric fastened along the rear frame. Rocco watches me secure one corner, then reaches above my head and attaches the opposite side before I ask. With his height, he does not need the small folding stool I brought.
“You’re altering the creative vision,” I tell him.
“I’m preventing you from falling.”
“I have excellent balance.”
“You nearly dropped a table earlier today.”
“The table was caught.”
“Because I caught it.”
His arm remains raised as he tightens the fastener. Pain moves across his shoulder again, sharper this time. His face gives nothing away, but his body stills for half a second. I reach toward him instinctively. Rocco lowers his arm before I touch him.
“Where does the phone go?” he asks.
I point toward the wooden shelving unit. “Prop it against the small amethyst cluster. Make sure you don’t use the large one.”
“Why?”
“The large one is worth nine hundred dollars.”
He looks at the stones inside the open case. “People pay nine hundred dollars for rocks?”
“Some people pay considerably more.”
He selects the smaller cluster with new respect and positions the phone against it. When he steps back, the angle captures most of the booth and a narrow slice of mountain beyond the opening.
“Good?” he asks.
I check the screen. “Very good.”
“I’m returning to work.”
“You are working.”
“Your video is not part of my contract.”
“But inspecting the booth is.”
“That was the reason I came here.”
“Then you might as well observe the entire setup. It will save time later.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Did you plan this?”
“No. I respond to opportunities as they present themselves.”
“That sounds like planning without accountability.”
“It sounds like flexibility.”
“It sounds dangerous.”
The word carries more weight than the conversation deserves. Rocco’s gaze lands briefly on the festival grounds, automatically checking the lane and the people moving between tents. Even while arguing with me, some part of him remains alert to everything around us.
I recognize that kind of attention. Not the source of it, but the cost. A person cannot watch every doorway without eventually forgetting what it feels like to sit with his back to one.
I resist the temptation to tell him. We have known each other less than a few hours, and he has already made his opinion of uninvited observations clear.
Instead, I continue building the booth. I arrange candles on the wooden shelves according to scent family.
Cedarwood, amber, and clove occupy the autumn collection.
Vanilla, cardamom, and orange sit beneath them.
The newest candle is poured into dark red glass and contains a blend of apple, cinnamon bark, and woodsmoke.
Rocco picks it up and reads the label.
“Autumn Premonition.”
“It’s new.”
“What does autumn smell like before it happens?”
“Change.”
He removes the lid and inhales. “Smells like apples.”
“Change can smell like apples.”
“It can also smell like fire.”
“That is the woodsmoke.”
He examines the wick. “These won’t be lit?”
“Not during the festival. The display candles remain unlit, and the lanterns use batteries.”
“What about the oil diffuser?”
“Water-based ultrasonic diffusion. No heat.”
“The string lights?”
“Low-voltage LEDs.”
“Extension cords?”
“One commercial outdoor-rated cord, secured beneath a cable ramp. I read the vendor packet.”
“You blocked the emergency lane.”
“I read it. I didn’t say I obeyed every portion immediately.”
Rocco sets down the candle. “Keep all fabric at least three feet from the electrical connections. Do not drape anything across the rear exit. The privacy screens need weighted bases, and nothing can hang from the trees.”
“I wasn’t planning to hang anything from the trees.”
“You brought approximately fifty feet of fabric.”
“Fabric creates atmosphere.”
“Fabric creates a fire load.”
I glance toward the phone recording us. “My followers are going to find you very reassuring.”
He follows my gaze. “You’re recording?”
“Yes.”
Rocco reaches for it. I laugh and arrive first, ending the video before he can delete anything. “You were wonderful.”
“I was conducting a safety inspection.”
“With authority and useful visual contrast.”
“Do not post that.”
“I won’t post anything that shows you clearly without permission.”
The answer stops him. He expected another joke, but consent matters in more places than the ones people find obvious.
I play back part of the recording. Most of Rocco remains outside the frame. His arm appears occasionally as he fastens the fabric or moves a lantern. His voice is audible, deep and dry, particularly when he informs me that change smells like fire.
“I can edit you out entirely,” I offer.
He watches the screen over my shoulder. Standing this close, his body creates a wall of warmth along my back. He smells faintly of coffee, cold air, and something clean with a hint of cedar. My awareness of him gathers low in my body, stronger than it was during unloading.
“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.”