Page 15 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

The lock clicks, and he pushes the door open with quiet satisfaction.

“You really do restoration work?”

“Historic preservation. Bringing old buildings back to life the right way.” He steps aside to let me go in first, and When I brush past him, I stop mid-step.

The contact sends warmth through my shoulder, and I find myself lingering in the doorway a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Then another. “Same as what you do with antiques, I imagine. Seeing the value in things other people would throw away.”

He knows about my work. Reed told him about my work.

“Reed told you about my shop?”

“Said you know maritime antiques better than anyone he’s met.

Could spot authenticity across a room.” He examines my grandmother’s restored fixtures the way other people examine fine art—hands behind his back, serious concentration.

When he nods approval, I feel ridiculously proud.

“I work with architectural salvage. Nice to meet someone else who appreciates old craftsmanship.”

The way he says it, with genuine interest rather than just politeness, makes warmth spread through my chest despite my wet clothes.

“You should get dry,” Adrian says, glancing at my soaked cardigan. “I’ll wait here. And try not to drip on your grandmother’s floors.”

“How do you know they’re my grandmother’s floors?”

“Reed mentioned you inherited the shop from her. House has the same feel—careful restoration, respect for original details.” His eyes move over the antique fixtures with professional appreciation. “Someone who understood history lived here.”

He sees it. He actually sees what makes this place special.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, my voice slightly breathless from more than just the cold. “Kitchen’s through there if you want to start coffee. Everything’s in the cupboard above the pot.”

I escape upstairs before I can do anything else embarrassing, like stare at him some more or ask if all construction workers have eyes like storm clouds and voices that make me think of safety.

In my bedroom, I peel out of my wet clothes and towel off, trying to process what just happened. Adrian Blackwood—the third pack member, the one Reed thought I might want to meet—is downstairs in my kitchen making coffee like this is perfectly normal behavior.

And he came here because he was curious about me. Not because Reed sent him to check on me. Because he wanted to see if we had chemistry.

I pull on dry jeans and a soft sweater, run a brush through my damp hair, and try to figure out what I’m supposed to do now. How do you handle meeting someone who might be the third piece of a puzzle you didn’t know you were trying to solve?

Simple. You go downstairs and get to know him like a normal person.

When I get back to the kitchen, Adrian has coffee brewing like he’s been living here for years instead of breaking and entering five minutes ago, and he’s examining Grandma Rose’s restored fixtures with the kind of professional interest that makes my chest do weird fluttery things.

He’s pulled off his wet jacket, revealing a flannel shirt that clings to broad shoulders and strong arms in ways that should probably be illegal in at least twelve states.

“Beautiful work,” he says, examining the Victorian details. “Your grandmother?”

“She believed in preservation with purpose.” When he hands me coffee, our fingers brush—that same zing I felt with Declan and Reed, but steadier. Like recognition .

“Smart approach. Balance is everything.” Adrian leans against the counter, close enough that the space feels charged.

“Tell me about the restoration work,” I say. “What’s your favorite kind of project?”

“Houses like this one. Victorian-era homes that have been loved but need updating.” His eyes move around my kitchen, taking in details I probably don’t even notice anymore. “Something satisfying about adding modern conveniences without destroying the original soul.”

Watching him light up makes my pulse quicken. The same way mine does when I’m explaining the history of a maritime piece—professional passion that makes his eyes brighten and his usually quiet voice become more animated.

“What about you? What’s your favorite kind of piece to work with?”

“Maritime pieces that have been discarded or undervalued. Things people think are worthless until someone explains their actual story.” I gesture enthusiastically with my coffee mug.

“Last month, someone brought me this tarnished brass instrument they found in their grandfather’s attic.

They thought it might be worth twenty dollars.

Turned out to be an eighteen-eighties ship’s sextant in perfect working condition. Worth about three thousand.”

“Did you tell them?”

“Of course. But I also explained why it was valuable—the craftsmanship, the history, what it would have meant to the captain who owned it.” I’m warming to the subject, gesturing with my coffee mug.

“They ended up keeping it instead of selling it, because they understood it wasn’t just expensive.

It was their great-grandfather’s tool, something he trusted with his life every day at sea. ”

“You gave them their family history back.”

“Exactly.” I look up at him, and he’s watching me with that same focused attention Declan showed when I was explaining maritime antiques. Like what I’m saying actually matters to him. “That’s what I love about this work. It’s not just about objects. It’s about connecting people to their stories.”

“We do the same work,” Adrian says simply. “I preserve buildings so they can keep telling their stories. You preserve objects for the same reason.”

“Reed was right about us having things in common.”

“Reed’s smarter than he lets on.” Adrian’s expression becomes more thoughtful. “Speaking of Reed—when’s the last time you ate? Because unless I’m wrong, you’ve had coffee and adrenaline for dinner.”

I glance at the clock on my grandmother’s stove. “Oh. It’s almost nine. I was going to make something after I got back inside, but then you were here, and...” I trail off, realizing how that sounds.

“Right. That settles it.” Adrian sets down his coffee mug and starts opening my cabinets with the kind of confidence that suggests he’s comfortable in kitchens. “What do you have that I can work with?”

“You don’t have to cook for me,” I protest, even as something warm unfurls in my chest at the idea of someone taking care of me that way.

“I want to.” He glances back at me, and there’s something gentle but determined in his storm-gray eyes. “Besides, I’m starving too, and cooking for two isn’t much harder than cooking for one. What sounds good?”

“I have pasta. And I think there’s some chicken in the fridge...” I move to help him inventory my kitchen, and we keep bumping into each other in the small space—his shoulder against mine when we both reach for the same cabinet, his hand steadying me when I nearly trip over his feet.

“Perfect. I make a decent carbonara.” He’s already pulling ingredients, moving around my kitchen like he belongs there. “Though fair warning—I learned to cook from my dad, who learned from his Italian neighbor in Vermont. Very traditional techniques, lots of opinions about proper cheese.”

“That sounds amazing,” I say, settling on one of the stools at my kitchen island to watch him work. “How did you learn all this? The cooking, the restoration work?”

“My dad.” Adrian’s hands are gentle as he handles eggs, precise as he grates cheese. “He was a carpenter, taught me that working with your hands is a way of honoring things that came before. Lost him when I was twenty-two, right before I finished trade school.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He would have liked this kitchen,” Adrian says simply, and I hear the fondness underneath the grief. “He always said the best homes were the ones where someone cared enough to preserve the original heart while making room for new life.”

“That’s exactly what my grandmother believed too.”

“Smart people, our grandparents’ generation.” He starts heating a pan, and the sound of sizzling fills the comfortable quiet.

“How did you end up working with Declan and Reed? You three seem like you’ve been friends forever.”

Adrian pauses in his stirring, a small smile crossing his face. “College. Though friends isn’t exactly how it started.”

“Oh really?” I lean forward, intrigued. “Do tell.”

“Reed was my sophomore year roommate. Showed up with more hair products than I’d ever seen in one place and immediately tried to reorganize our entire dorm room according to some kind of feng shui system he’d read about online.”

I laugh, picturing a young Reed with his perfectly styled hair. “That sounds exactly like him.”

“He spent the first week trying to mediate between me and our neighbors, who were convinced I was either mute or plotting something because I didn’t talk much.

” Adrian’s smile grows wider. “Turned out we were both taking the same architectural preservation course. Reed was there for the interior design angle, I was there for the structural work.”

“And Declan?”

“Declan was the TA.” Adrian adds pasta to the boiling water with practiced ease. “Three years older, former hockey player, took absolutely no shit from anyone. Reed had a massive crush on him within about five minutes of the first class.”

“Reed had a crush on Declan?” This is delicious gossip, and I’m here for all of it.

“Oh, it was painful to watch. Nothing sexual but it was the first sign we were pack. Reed would ask these incredibly detailed questions about load-bearing walls just to keep Declan talking. Meanwhile, Declan was completely oblivious because he was too busy being impressed by Reed’s design instincts and my restoration techniques. ”

I picture them—young, figuring out their dynamics, probably completely clueless about what they meant to each other. “How long did it take you all to figure it out?”