Page 16 of Knotting Autumn

Out front, Thorne climbed out of a shiny black SUV. He looked around and smiled when he saw me, and my heart dida treacherous little flip-flop. Sighing, I crossed the road to meet him.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, going in for a hug.

Stiffening, I braced for him to touch me, but he paused, reading my body language. Dropping his arms, he laughed awkwardly and jerked his head toward the restaurant door.

“Hungry?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Rubbing my hands over my arms, I walked to the door, Thorne beside me. He held the door open, and I walked into the warm, homey restaurant.

Golden light glowed from the lanterns hanging above each table. Papel picado banners hung across the ceiling in every color. A hostess led us to a booth, and I brushed my fingers over the vermillion tablecloth as I slid in.

Thorne settled across from me, his head swiveling as he took in the colorful space.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere like this before,” he said.

“What?” I paused, frowning as I watched his face for any clues that he was lying. But why would he lie about that?

“I mean, I’ve had Mexican food. My mom used to make some incredible tamales every year at Christmas. But I don’t eat out much. This is pretty cool.”

“This place is one of my favorites, actually. It’s not always this decorated though, but it is almost Día de los Muertos.”

I pointed to the marigold flowers tucked into the brick-framed windows beside candles. Someone had painted monarch butterflies on the glass of the windows.

“If you don’t mind me asking, is your family Mexican?”

I smiled at Thorne. “I don’t actually know. I grew up in a group home, but they told me I was probably mixed Latina, so I took Spanish in school. I didn’t want to sound like an idiot if I ever met any family members.”

Thorne’s smile softened. I waited for him to ask the prying questions people usually asked following that revelation, but he stayed quiet.

The waiter placed chips and salsa in front of us. He waited until I ate one before picking one up and trying it.

“I hate to say it, but it’s definitely better than my mom’s version.” He laughed lightly.

“I make a mean salsa,” I admitted. “It was something of a special interest growing up.”

“I’d love to try it,” he said, his brows rising in a sweetly hopeful expression.

My throat thickened, and I stuffed a chip in my mouth to avoid answering.

The waitress arrived, and I ordered chimichangas de camarón, and Thorne asked for the same. I cocked an eyebrow. “Did you just copy me again?”

“I want to know what you like. Plus, if you like it, it’s probably really good,” he explained.

Shrugging, I said, “It is. Hopefully you like shrimp.”

“I do.” His eyes crinkled again, and I felt myself softening.

He was so damn nice, and I couldn’t peel my eyes off his face—those dark stormy eyes, the cut of his jaw, the line of his shoulders. That was, until he hunched forward and the muscles of his neck and shoulders flexed with the movement.

Geez, this guy must live in a gym.

“So how long have you worked at the farm store?” he asked, shaking me out of my stupor.

“About three years, almost four,” I said, taking a sip of the margarita our waitress set in front of me. I’d asked her to make it half-strength because I needed my wits about me. “What do you do?”

Thorne paused and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, my family kinda owns a business.”

“Kinda?”