Page 23 of Knot Your Karma
“You’re giving me useful information,” I tell her firmly, already pulling up their menu. “Pad see ew and tom kha soup. Anything else? Spring rolls? We’re talking about an hour of manual labor here—you need actual sustenance.”
“The spring rolls are really good,” she admits, then adds in a rush, “But you really don’t have to do this. I can just grab something later.”
“Karma.” I wait until she looks at me. “I want to buy you lunch. Is that okay?”
She studies my face for a long moment, and I can practically see her internal debate—the part of her that wants to accept care, warring with whatever lessons her past taught her about accepting things from people.
“Okay,” she says finally, and her scent shifts to something warmer, more trusting. “Thank you.”
While we wait for the food, we keep working, and it’s the small touches that really get to me. She hands me invoices, and our fingers brush. The contact sends electricity straight through me. She pauses, her hand lingering against mine for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, before pulling away with pink creeping up her neck.
When the delivery arrives, she insists we eat at her newly organized desk
“See? This is why proper filing systems matter—we have space for actual meals now”, and watching her take that first bite of soup, the way her eyes close and her whole body relaxes like she’s been running on empty for hours, I realize something.
Taking care of her feels as natural as breathing. More thanthat—it feels necessary, like some fundamental beta instinct I didn’t know I had is finally getting to do what it was designed for.
We finish eating and get back to the filing, but something’s shifted. She’s more relaxed now, moving with the fluid confidence of someone who’s been properly fed and cared for. And I’m more aware of everything—how she unconsciously leans closer when reaching for papers, the way she moves with fluid confidence now that she’s been fed and cared for.
“The auction catalogs go here,” she says, creating neat stacks, and when she turns to show me the system, she’s standing close enough that I can see the pulse beating in her throat. “Because I reference them for current market values, but they need to be separated from the historical references.”
“That makes perfect sense,” I agree, trying not to focus on how our shoulders keep bumping as we work. Each contact sends heat through my shirt, and she doesn’t move away. “You really know what you’re doing. This is professional-level organization.”
“Most of the time,” she admits, tension finally leaving her shoulders as the space looks manageable. When she reaches past me to place a folder on the shelf, her cardigan brushes my forearm, and the soft wool carries her scent like a promise. “My grandmother taught me everything about maritime antiques. She always said organization is the difference between knowledge and wisdom.”
“Smart woman. She’d be proud of what you’ve built here.” I hand her the last stack of papers, and when she takes them, her fingers linger against mine for just a moment longer than necessary. “This place is incredible, Karma.”
Something soft crosses her expression. “I hope so. Some days I feel like I’m just pretending to be competent while internally screaming into the void.”
“Welcome tofake-it-till-you-make-itadulting,” I say, gesturing at her newly organized space. “The secret is we’reall highly functional disasters with good organizational skills.”
That gets a genuine laugh, and her scent shifts to something warmer, more relaxed. The sound hits me square in the chest—not just the laugh itself, but the way it transforms her whole face, makes her look younger and less guarded. Christ, she’s beautiful when she’s not scared.
I duck my head and focus very intently on the invoices in my hands, because staring at her like a lovesick teenager probably isn’t the professional beta support Declan was hoping for. But even as we get back to organizing, I keep catching myself glancing up at her when I think she’s not looking. The way she bites her lower lip when concentrating. How her fingers linger on certain maritime pieces like they’re old friends. The little satisfied hum she makes when something slots into place exactly where it belongs.
Each time she catches me looking, I pretend to be examining whatever paperwork is in my hands, but the pink creeping up my neck probably gives me away.
“Can I ask you something?” she says as we finish organizing the last of the paperwork.
“Sure.” I lean against her now-organized desk, keeping my posture open and relaxed.
“Are you always this helpful to complete strangers, or am I just lucky enough to catch you on a day when your savior complex is particularly active?”
I consider this. “Well, technically you stopped being a complete stranger the moment you trusted me to catch you. Plus, I’ve been hearing about the mysterious maritime expert who scrambled my best friend’s brain chemistry.”
And there it is—the exact moment I said something that triggered her anxiety radar. Great job,Reed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I know who you are. My business partner’s been talking about you. A lot.”
The change in her scent is immediate—anxiety flooding back like storm clouds rolling in. Her hand goes to her bracelet again, twisting nervously. “Your business partner?”
“Declan Mitchell,” I say gently, watching her face carefully. “I’m Reed Santos. I work with Second Chances Restoration.”
She sinks into her desk chair like her legs just gave out, and her scent spikes with something that smells like pure panic mixed with existential dread. “Oh god. You’re his backup. The pack he called for help.”
“Whoa, easy there,” I say quickly, automatically shifting into my mediator voice. “I’m the de-escalation specialist in this operation, not the interrogation team.”
“He told you about me?” Her voice is barely a whisper, and she’s gripping the arms of her chair like they’re anchoring her to reality. “Declan?”
