Page 7 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

Karma

I stare at the CLOSED sign on my shop door like it might spontaneously combust if I flip it to OPEN. Which would honestly solve a lot of my problems right now.

Maybe if I don’t open today, he won’t come back. Maybe he’ll just... go away and I can pretend this whole mess never happened.

The hollow ache in my chest that started when Destiny left last night hasn’t eased, and I catch myself checking the shop entrance like I’m expecting—or hoping for—someone specific.

Foolish, foolish omega. And yet, I glance at the door again for like the hundredth time.

But the loan notice is still sitting on my counter like a particularly vindictive piece of mail, and my stomach churns thinking about my bank account hovering somewhere between pathetic and please don’t let my card get declined at the grocery store, again.

I flip the notice face-down again and start arranging my pricing pens in a perfect line. I need customers. Even customers who happen to be the gorgeous alpha brother of my cheating ex-boyfriend who’s looking for the family heirloom I stole and sold.

God, my life is a disaster.

I flip the sign and unlock the door, because apparently I’m a masochist who enjoys emotional torture.

The morning passes quietly enough, which is probably a blessing because I’m not sure I could handle actual drama right now.

A few tourists wander in looking for authentic coastal treasures and leave with overpriced decorative anchors that were probably made in China last week.

Mrs. Henderson stops by to ask if I have any Depression-era glassware, and I manage to have a completely normal conversation that doesn’t involve lying about grand theft compass, which honestly feels like a major life achievement at this point.

Normal shop owner things.

I’m reorganizing my maybe pile for the sixth time—moving the silver locket between the jewelry box and the compass rose like the exact positioning will somehow solve my financial crisis—when the shop bell chimes.

My spine straightens automatically before I even turn around.

Declan fills the doorway again, and yep, he still looks like he stepped out of a Competent Alpha Who Fixes Things catalog. Work boots, flannel shirt, measuring tape on his belt, measuring tape on his belt like he’s ready to measure exactly how much trouble I’m in.

I take a deeper breath, then another, like I’ve been holding my breath for months. A sound tries to escape my throat—something embarrassingly close to a purr—and I cough to cover it.

Professional , Karma. You’re a professional antique dealer helping a customer. You definitely didn’t steal his family’s priceless heirloom.

“Morning,” I say, switching to my customer service voice while my fingers automatically start straightening the already-straight maritime display. “Back again so soon?”

“I was hoping we could talk.” He steps closer, and I’m rearranging display pieces again, but somehow each adjustment moves me two inches closer to where he’s standing.

There’s something different about his energy today.

More focused. More determined. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation yesterday. ”

I wipe my palms on my jeans, then do it again thirty seconds later. “Oh? What about it?”

Oh he is so here for me.

“About you. About your expertise.” He moves closer to the counter, and I track his movement without thinking.

“Look, you know this stuff better than anyone I’ve met.

I need someone who can tell a real lead from a wild goose chase.

And honestly? After yesterday, I’d rather work with someone I actually trust.”

Trust . The word hits me so hard I actually step backward like it’s physically dangerous, which apparently it is because my hip immediately finds the counter edge in that special way that’s definitely going to leave a bruise.

He’s looking at me with this open, hopeful expression, and my chest feels like someone’s sitting on it wearing concrete shoes.

The compass rose has moved four times in the last two minutes. I can’t seem to stop touching things—adjusting, straightening, polishing surfaces that don’t need polishing.

“Trust is good,” I say weakly. “Very... trustworthy of you to trust me.”

Smooth , Karma. Really selling that competence.

“I was wondering if you’d be willing to partner with me on this.”

My hand reaches for the brass anchor, overshoots, and nearly brushes his arm before I jerk it back. The words hit me like a physical blow—partner, with him, while actively lying about stealing the thing he’s looking for .

I’m dead. I’m absolutely dead.

“Partner... with you?” The words come out slightly strangled, and I clear my throat to cover it.

“Research. Tracking down leads. You’d know where a piece like this might end up, who deals in high-end estate pieces.” He’s looking at me with this hopeful, trusting expression that makes me want to confess everything immediately. “I’m good at the legwork, but you’ve got the expertise.”

Focus. This could actually work. If I’m helping him look for it, I can control where we search.

Lead him away from the real trail. My fingers trace the edge of the compass rose in my maybe pile—the one that’s definitely not the stolen Mitchell family heirloom but looks suspiciously similar.

Which was the precise plan Destiny and I came up with.

I just have to be brave. Which I totally am. Brave. I think.

“That’s flattering and terrifying. What if I’m terrible at this? What if you realize I just talk a big game but don’t actually know enough?” The words tumble out in a rush, and I immediately start adjusting the spacing between display pieces.

“Hey.” Something in his tone makes my spine snap straight like I’m in my grandmother’s church. My hands still on the counter. Even my breathing goes quiet. “You impressed the hell out of me yesterday. I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

Oh no. When he gets all reassuring and protective, my hands stop shaking for the first time all morning. I find myself stepping closer to the counter, closer to him, like there’s an invisible string pulling me forward.

“Okay,” I say, breathing deeply and catching more of that cedar scent. “Okay, yes. I can do research. I love research. Research is great. Love research. I could research the maritime antique trade all day. Probably will. Extensively. With charts.”

Dear God, please let the floor open up and swallow me .

“Great.” His smile is devastating. “But I should probably warn you—this might get complicated.”

“Complicated how?” I ask, and immediately want to kick myself. Stop asking questions that might lead to uncomfortable answers.

“Well, for starters, there’s definitely something...” He gestures vaguely between us, and I catch myself leaning even closer, breathing deeper like I’m trying to memorize that cedar-and-rain scent. “You feel it too, right?”

Oh no. We’re really doing this. In my shop. While I’m actively lying to him about stealing his family heirloom.

“You mean the fact that you smell like every omega fantasy about protective alphas, and I’ve been fighting the urge to climb you like a tree since you walked in yesterday?” The words slip out before I can stop them. Well I guess I’m all in now. “Yeah, I noticed that too.”

His eyes darken with something warmer, hungrier. “That’s... more direct than I was expecting.”

“Sorry, when I’m nervous I apparently lose all ability to be subtle.” I clutch a maritime book to my chest like armor. “Along with my filter, my dignity, and apparently my sense of self-preservation.”

“Don’t apologize. I like direct.” The way he says it, looking directly at me, makes heat pool in my stomach. “But you’re right—we should probably talk about it.”

“Right. Professional boundaries. Very important. Communication is key.” I clear my throat, which turns into a coughing fit that sounds like I’m dying.

My eyes start watering. I wave my hand like that will somehow make it better, knock over the pen holder, and watch pens scatter across the floor like maritime confetti.

“So we acknowledge the attraction, agree not to act on it, and focus on finding your family compass like mature adults.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“Great. I’m excellent at being reasonable. Ask anyone.” I bend down to collect the scattered pens, bumping my head on the counter edge on the way up. “Well, don’t ask Destiny. She’ll tell you I’m a disaster who makes terrible decisions and needs constant supervision.”

“Destiny?”

“My best friend. She owns the coffee shop next door and has appointed herself my life coach, therapist, and occasionally my impulse control.” I right the pen holder and immediately start organizing the pens by color. “She’s going to have opinions about this partnership.”

“Good opinions or hide the sharp objects opinions?”

“Probably both. She’s very protective.” I pause, realizing I should probably warn him. “Fair warning—if she thinks you’re going to hurt me, she will absolutely poison your coffee and make it look like an accident.”

“Good to know.” He seems genuinely amused by this. “I’ll make sure to stay on her good side.”

“Smart man.” I finish organizing the pens and immediately start dusting surfaces that are already clean. “So when would we start this professional, boundary-respecting partnership?”

“Today, if you’re available. I’ve got some leads to follow up on, and I’d like your input on whether they’re worth pursuing.”

Today. As in, immediately. As in, no time to panic or call Destiny or figure out how to handle this without completely destroying my life.

“Today works,” I hear myself saying, which is apparently what my mouth does when my brain completely shuts down from panic. “Let me just grab my laptop and we can?—”

His phone buzzes. He glances at it, and his entire expression shifts. The easy warmth disappears, replaced by something sharper. More focused.

Well this feel problematic.

“Hey.” Something in his tone makes my spine snap straight like I’m in my grandmother’s church. My hands still on the counter. Even my breathing goes quiet.

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no.

“Actually,” he says, looking up at me with an intensity that makes every nerve ending in my body scream danger. “Change of plans.”

“What kind of change?” My voice comes out as barely a whisper. I clutch the edge of my counter with both hands, fighting the urge to step closer to him instead of away. My body apparently has terrible survival instincts.

He holds up his phone, and there’s something almost predatory in his smile. “Remember that dealer I mentioned yesterday? Sage Morrison?”

My vision goes spotty around the edges. I grab the counter with both hands.

Please don’t let it be what I think it is. Please let this be about literally anything else.

“Vaguely,” I lie, my voice cracking on the word.

“She just texted. Says she thinks she might have information about the compass.” His whole posture changes—shoulders squarer, stance wider, like he’s preparing for a hunt. “Wants to meet in person to discuss what she knows.”

The room tilts sideways. The pricing pens I just organized scatter across the counter as my hands shake. Declan immediately steps closer, his brow furrowing with concern, and cedar-and-rain gentles automatically.

“That’s... that’s great,” I manage to say, and my voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away. “Really great news. Super great.”

“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

More like I’m about to become one.

“Just excited,” I squeak. “You know how I get about maritime antiques. Very... exciting stuff.”

I’m so screwed .