Page 10 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

Reed

“Where the hell are you?” I ask when Declan finally picks up his phone on the fourth ring. “Adrian and I got here twenty minutes ago, and you’re nowhere to be found.”

“At the inn,” Dec’s voice sounds like he gargled gravel and regret. Knowing him, it could be both. “Room twelve. But Reed, something happened with Karma.”

I pause halfway up the steps to Anchor’s Inn. Adrian should be right behind me carrying our overnight bags. But all I hear is his heaving breath as he climbs the stairs.

“What kind of something? Good something or I need to start planning damage control something?”

“I kissed her.”

“Okay, that sounds like good something. Why do you sound like someone just told you your favorite building got condemned?”

“She ran.” The words come out flat, defeated. “I think I scared her off. She had this panic attack, and I thought... I thought I was helping, but the moment I kissed her, she looked at me like I was the last person she wanted comfort from. ”

I exchange a look with Adrian, who’s now paying full attention to my side of the conversation. His gray eyes narrow with concern.

“Dec, did it occur to you that maybe she’s not scared of you specifically? Maybe she’s scared of the situation, and you kissing her just made everything more intense?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I just... I screwed this up, Reed.”

“You didn’t screw anything up,” I say automatically. Even though I know Declan, it’s possible he pushed too hard too fast. “Where is she now?”

“Her shop, probably. What Goes Around, on Main Street. But I don’t think she wants to see me right now.” He really sounds like a defeated puppy.

“Good thing she doesn’t have to see you right now.” I’m already heading back down the inn steps. “I’m going to go introduce myself. Beta perspective might be helpful here.”

“Reed, you don’t have to?—”

“Dec, you’re spiraling. That’s exactly when pack steps in to save you from yourself.”

Besides, I need to meet this girl now.

I hang up and fill Adrian in as we walk through Anchor’s Rest. The town is exactly what I expected—quaint coastal charm, historic buildings, salt air mixing with the smell of old wood.

I bet people are peaking out their blinds watching us walk down the street wondering who the hell we are.

“So he kissed the maritime expert during her panic attack, and she ran,” Adrian summarizes.

“Pretty much. Someone needs to check on her, and it shouldn’t be the person who caused the panic in the first place.”

“All right, good luck. I don’t want to overwhelm her anymore.” Adrian pauses, looking through the window to What Goes Around with longing. “Fill me in.” Then he turns and walks off .

I push open the door, and the bell chimes sweetly. The shop is bigger than it looks from outside, filled with carefully curated displays that show real understanding of maritime history.

“Hello?” I call out. The scent hits me—vanilla and sea salt—and I stop mid-step. Oh that is delicious. “Anyone here?”

“Just a minute!” The voice comes from the back, slightly breathless. “I’m trying to reach something and if I fall off this ladder, my best friend is going to kill me before the concussion does!”

I follow the voice toward what I’m guessing is the maritime section, and immediately spot what’s either a workplace safety violation or an accident waiting to happen.

There’s a woman stretched up on a tall wooden ladder, reaching for something on a high shelf. Auburn hair escaping from a messy bun, vintage cardigan, balanced precariously like someone who’s done this a hundred times but definitely shouldn’t be doing it alone.

The ladder wobbles as she stretches further.

“Whoa, hey,” I call out, moving quickly toward the base of the ladder. “That looks like a job for someone with better insurance coverage.”

She startles and the ladder wobbles dangerously. I’m moving before my brain catches up, positioning myself right beneath her as she loses her balance and falls backward.

I catch her in what has to be the most romantic comedy moment of my entire life—one arm around her waist, the other supporting her back, both of us breathing hard and staring at each other. Something in my chest goes quiet and satisfied. My arms don’t want to let go.

In fact, it might take an army to peel her away from me.

Her eyes are warm hazel with flecks of gold, wide with surprise and something else—recognition, maybe.

“Well,” I say, still holding her, “this is either the most romantic meet-cute in Anchor’s Rest history, or I just became an accessory to workplace safety violations. Either way, I’m weirdly okay with it.”

She blinks, then lets out a surprised laugh that transforms her whole face and does terrible things to my pulse.

“Oh god, that’s embarrassing. I swear I’m normally more coordinated than this, but I was trying to reach this compass rose that someone put way too high up, and now I’m basically recreating a rom-com meet-cute except with more potential for actual injury and—” She stops, taking a breath.

“Hi. Thank you for the catch. Very heroic.”

“Hi yourself.” I’m still holding her, and she’s not asking me to let go.

Therefore I shall hold her forever. Or at least until she wants down.

“I’m Reed, and apparently catching beautiful women is my new specialty.

Most people just go with nice weather . You went full Cirque du Soleil.

I respect the commitment to memorable first impressions. ”

“Very funny.” But she’s smiling, and her grip on the chair arms loosens, and I can see some of the tension leave her shoulders. “I’m Karma, and for the record, that wasn’t a pickup attempt. That was just me being a disaster with questionable ladder safety practices.”

She wiggles and I know she wants me to let her down and logically I know I should. And when she wiggles again, I reluctantly set her on her feet. I help her find her footing, but I don’t step back immediately. There’s something about her that makes my instincts go protective and focused.

“Reed Santos,” I say, extending my hand. “And honestly? If this is how you usually meet people, I’m impressed. Most people just swipe right like civilized humans.”

“That’s...” She stares at me with those incredible hazel eyes, and something builds in the space between us.

Neither of us steps back. Her breath catches when our shoulders brush.

But then her expression shifts, becoming more guarded.

“That’s really sweet. Are you sure you’re real?

Because in my experience, perfect doesn’t usually. .. last. ”

We’re standing close enough that I can see the pulse beating in her throat. She’s looking at me like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect to find, and I realize I’m leaning closer without meaning to.

We’re having one of those moments where the air gets thick and I’m trying to figure out if I’m imagining the electricity or if she feels it too.

Her lips part slightly, and for a heartbeat I think we’re about to?—

“Oh no,” she says suddenly, stepping back so quickly she nearly trips. Her hand shoots to her vintage bracelet, fingers working the charm in rapid circles. Her breathing speeds up. Her sweet scent suddenly turning stressed. “No, no, no. This is—I can’t?—”

And then she’s moving, heading toward the back of the shop with focused energy that suggests something just triggered every anxiety response she has.

“Karma?” I follow her, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” she says, pushing through a door marked PRIVATE. “Everything is wrong.”

I follow her into what appears to be her office—afternoon light through harbor-view windows, a desk covered in paperwork, a comfortable couch. But Karma isn’t looking at any of that. She’s looking at the chaos.

Papers scattered across every surface, books stacked haphazardly, maritime catalogs spread open and overlapping, pens scattered like confetti. The kind of disorganization that suggests this isn’t normal.

“It’s all wrong,” she says, starting to gather papers with shaking hands. “The filing system is backwards, these invoices should be organized by date, and why are these auction catalogs mixed in with my appraisal notes? How did I let it get this bad?”

I watch her arrange papers with focused intensity, recognizing what I’m seeing. She’s creating order from chaos—an omega making her space safe.

“Karma,” I say gently. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” she says, still clutching invoices. “Nothing about this is okay. I’ve been pretending I have my life together when clearly I’m a disaster, and now there’s—” She gestures vaguely in my direction. “There’s this whole situation happening that I definitely can’t handle.”

“What if I help?” I offer, gesturing toward the scattered papers. “Intense filing systems are basically my love language. I once organized my roommate’s emotional baggage by severity and probable resolution time.”

She stares at me like I just offered to solve world hunger with a spreadsheet. “You want to help me organize my disaster office?”

“I want to help you feel better,” I say honestly, sinking into the chair across from her desk instead of looming. “Whatever’s got you this scared, we can figure it out. And if organizing helps, then yeah, I want to help organize.”

For a moment, she just looks at me, and I can scent the shift as some of her panic settles into cautious hope.

Reed, one point.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “But I should warn you—I have very specific ideas about how things should be arranged.”

“I love specific filing systems,” I assure her, already moving toward the desk. “Tell me where to start.”

For the next half-hour, I help her transform the office chaos into something manageable. She directs with focused intensity, explaining the proper way to organize maritime appraisal documents

“No, the provenance papers go behind the condition reports, because you need the history before you assess the current state”, and I follow her lead, staying close enough to help but giving her space to breathe.