Page 8 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

Karma

“So where exactly are we meeting Sage?” I ask as we walk down Main Street, trying to keep my voice steady while my entire body freaks out. My fingers find my vintage bracelet and start their nervous rotation.

“Her workshop space. It’s about six blocks from here, near the harbor.” Declan checks his phone while slowing his pace to keep with my shorter legs. “She said she prefers to discuss valuable pieces in private.”

Of course she does. Because Sage Morrison lives for dramatic power plays and psychological warfare. I twist my bracelet until the charm spins freely, the metal warm from my anxious handling.

“That makes sense,” I say, adjusting the bracelet for what’s probably the fifteenth time in three minutes. “Estate dealers can be... particular about their business practices.”

Particular. Right. Try willing to blackmail former clients to protect their illegal operations.

Well she did give me forty-eight hours. And here I am. Walking into the lion’s den. Willingly.

We pass The Daily Grind, and I can see Destiny through the window wiping down tables with more force than necessary—her stress-cleaning mode.

For a split second, I consider bolting inside and hiding behind the espresso machine until this whole nightmare goes away.

But Declan would probably follow me, and then I’d have to explain why I suddenly needed emergency caffeine and bestie intervention.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Declan observes as we turn toward the harbor district.

I find myself walking on his left side without thinking, angling closer every time the breeze shifts.

I find myself walking closer to him, my shoulder almost brushing his arm.

Every time the breeze shifts, I unconsciously lean toward him.

“What thing?” I ask, even though I know exactly what thing.

“That thing where you look like you’ve just remembered you left the stove on, except the stove is actually a bomb and it’s about to level your entire neighborhood.”

“That’s... surprisingly accurate.”

“I’m good at reading people. Comes with the construction territory—you learn to spot problems before they become disasters.

” He adjusts his stride to match mine, and there’s something protective about the way he positions himself slightly between me and the street.

“Want to tell me what’s really going on? ”

Sure, let me just confess that I stole your family’s priceless heirloom and we’re about to walk into a meeting with the person I sold it to. That’ll go over well.

“Just excited,” I lie, sidestepping a coil of rope someone left on the sidewalk. “Maritime antiques are my passion, remember? The possibility of tracking down a family heirloom this significant... it’s like Christmas morning for antique dealers.”

Christmas morning if Santa was actually a vengeful demon who specialized in destroying your life.

“Uh-huh.” The way he says it suggests he’s not buying my enthusiasm for even a second. “And Christmas morning usually makes you look like you’re about to throw up?”

“I get very excited about Christmas,” I say weakly.

“Sure you do.” But there’s warmth in his voice, like he finds my terrible lying endearing rather than suspicious. “Just... if something’s wrong, you can tell me, okay? We’re partners now.”

Partners. The word hits me so hard I stumble slightly. I start counting my steps—left, right, left, right—trying to find some rhythm that doesn’t involve complete panic.

We walk in silence for a few minutes, and apparently my brain decides this is the perfect time to become hyperaware of everything—the way his work boots sound against the cobblestones like some kind of alpha percussion section, how his presence feels more solid when he’s concentrating, the fact that he naturally adjusts his longer stride to match mine without even thinking about it.

Which is either really sweet or really problematic, depending on how this whole disaster plays out.

Things that would be romantic if I wasn’t about to get completely destroyed.

“There,” Declan says, pointing to a narrow building wedged between a fishing supply store and what looks like an abandoned restaurant. “That’s the address.”

Last time Sage came to me, not willing to reveal her space.

Sage’s workshop is exactly what I expected—deliberately mysterious and slightly intimidating. The windows are frosted glass, and there’s nothing but a small brass nameplate by the door.

Very, I deal in things that don’t ask questions about their past lives. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans before Declan can notice.

Declan knocks, and the door opens immediately, like Sage was waiting right behind it.

“Mr. Mitchell! Right on time.” Sage’s smile is bright and welcoming, but I can see the calculation behind her eyes. She’s dressed in flowing fabrics and dramatic jewelry, playing the part of eccentric antique dealer perfectly. “And you brought a colleague! How delightful.”

“This is Karma Rose,” Declan says, and I have to work very hard not to flinch at the name association. “She’s a maritime antique specialist. I thought her expertise might be helpful.”

“Karma.” Sage’s eyes light up with pure delight, and her smile becomes absolutely predatory. “What a delightfully... karmic name, wouldn’t you say? Especially given how these family treasures have such fascinating journeys from one home to another.”

She’s enjoying this way too much. I count my breathing—in for four, hold for four, out for four—trying not to hyperventilate on her doorstep.

“Please, come in.” Sage gestures us inside with a theatrical flourish. “I do so love reuniting people with lost family pieces. There’s something so poetic about things finding their way back to where they truly belong.”

The workshop is exactly what I expected—controlled chaos of antique pieces, restoration supplies, and the kind of expensive equipment that suggests she makes very good money at whatever she actually does. The air smells like old wood, metal polish, and something floral and expensive.

Sage settles behind an ornate desk that probably costs more than my shop’s monthly revenue, positioning herself like a queen holding court. I sit on the very edge of my chair, and the leather squeaks every time I move. Which is constantly, because I can’t seem to stop fidgeting.

Squeak when I cross my legs. Squeak when I uncross them. Squeak when I try to find a position that doesn’t make noise.

Declan sits with that confident alpha posture, completely at ease .

“Now then,” Sage says, her manicured fingers drumming against the desk like she’s conducting a symphony of my discomfort. “About this compass you’re looking for.”

“You said you might have information,” Declan says, pulling out his phone. “I can show you the insurance photos?—”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Sage waves dismissively, leaning back in her chair with feline satisfaction.

“I know exactly which compass you mean. Quite distinctive piece. Brass with maritime engravings, family inscription about true north and finding home. Beautifully crafted, obviously well-loved. Am I correct?”

She knows exactly which compass because I sold it to her three months ago. My heart pounds so loud it drowns out the harbor sounds. I press my hand to my chest, but it doesn’t muffle the thundering that feels like it might crack my ribs.

“That’s exactly right,” Declan says, and I can hear the hope in his voice. “Have you seen it?”

“Seen it?” Sage’s laugh is like silver bells with sharp edges. “Darling, I sold it. About three months ago, to a very discerning collector who specializes in maritime family treasures.”

The world tilts sideways. My mouth falls open. Closes. Opens again. No words come out, just a small squeaking sound like air escaping from a balloon. I clamp my lips shut and nod like this is totally normal professional behavior.

“You sold it?” Declan’s voice has gone sharp with focus, his alpha energy suddenly more intense. “When? To whom?”

“A private collector in Newport—Sterling Ashworth. Lovely gentleman, very knowledgeable about maritime antiques. He was specifically looking for pieces with family provenance.” Sage’s eyes find mine across the desk while Declan takes notes.

Her smile is all teeth. I dig my fingernails into my palms hard enough to leave marks, counting my heartbeats until she looks away.

“I’m sure dear Karma here knows Sterling’s reputation in our community. ”

Sterling Ashworth.

The snooty antique dealer from Newport who looks down on my thrift store. Of course Sage sold it to him. Of course. I start counting inventory in my head—thirteen compass roses, eight ship wheels, twenty-three pieces of brass fittings—anything to keep from falling apart.

“Ashworth,” Declan repeats, already pulling out his phone to take notes. “How do I contact him?”

“Oh, Sterling can be quite particular about who he speaks with. But I’d be happy to make an introduction.

” Sage glances at me with that same glittering amusement.

“I’m sure dear Karma here understands how important proper connections are in our business.

We maritime dealers must stick together, mustn’t we? ”

She’s loving this. She’s absolutely loving watching me squirm while pretending to help.

“That would be incredibly helpful,” Declan says, and his whole face lights up when Sage mentions helping. He actually grins—the first real smile I’ve seen from him. My stomach drops like I swallowed a stone. I have to look away before he sees whatever’s written on my face.

“What would convince him to sell it back?”

“Well, that’s the tricky part.” Sage sighs dramatically, one hand pressed to her chest. “Sterling doesn’t typically resell pieces from his personal collection.

He’s rather... possessive of his maritime treasures.

But perhaps if you could prove provenance, family ownership, offer the right incentive. ..”