Page 8 of Knotting Autumn

Smiling, I squeezed her wrist. “That’s so sweet of you, but I feel fine. I promise.”

“Great! They just delivered a ton of feed, and I don’t know where most of it goes. You’re so good at remembering those things.”

Fighting the urge to roll my eyes, I followed Margie to the back and began sorting bags of pellets, supplements, and treats that needed stocking.

Margie shuddered when she picked up a bag of mealworms. Chuckling, I plucked it out of her hands and gathered up the five other bags in my arms, heading to the front of the store.

“Autumn?” a low voice asked.

Jolting, my hold loosened and half a dozen bags of dried mealworms tumbled to the ground.

“Shiitake mushrooms!”

There was nothing I could do but watch them bounce off the linoleum.

Masculine hands scooped up two of the bags, tucked them against his chest, and then reached for a third.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that!” I said, rushing to stop the customer. Except it wasn’t just any customer. It was Thorne.

Denim eyes met mine, and my heart skipped a beat before picking up a faster rhythm.

“Let me help,” he said softly.

Not wanting to touch him, I stepped back and let him gather up all six bags of worms. “They go over here,” I said, leading the way to the correct spot.

Rising to my tiptoes, I grabbed the last remaining bag on the shelf, leaving it clear for him to set down the bags. Silently, Thorne arranged them in a tidy row, back far enough I could set the older bag in the very front.

“Thanks,” I muttered, lurching away from him the moment the task was complete.

“Autumn, wait.”

Tension coiled in my shoulders and back. Slowly, I turned to face him.

“Can we talk?”

His jaw ticked, his eyebrows rising, looking genuinely hopeful. Nope, him being cute would not get him a free pass.

My voice went high. “I’m not sure what we need to talk about. But let me know if you have anyfarm supply-related questions.”

Without missing a beat, Thorne answered, “You know what we have to talk about. I know you felt that, too.”

My stomach dropped. That last shred of hope that he didn’t know about my reaction the other day went up in smoke. And now I had to discuss it with him. Despite the jump in my pulse, I squared my shoulders and folded my arms over my chest, doing my best to appear confident as I faced him.

“Yeah, about that. I felt pretty sick. Did you do something to me?”

“No!” His eyes widened, but his next words were softer. “No, I would never hurt you, or drug you, or poison, or anything.”

“Then what was that?” I asked, my cheeks flushing as I remembered how my entire body had quivered with need. Even now, I could feel heat swirling low in my belly, heading south.

“We are mates,” he said simply.

My eyebrows shot up.

“Soulmates,” he corrected.

“Soulmates?” I asked dubiously.

What was this guy smoking?