Page 28 of Knot Your Karma
“Yeah?”
“Try to enjoy this. Three gorgeous men who all seem interested in you? That’s not a problem, that’s a fantasy come true.”
“It’s a fantasy that could end with me in jail.”
“Or it could end with you getting everything you never knew you wanted.”
I hug her goodbye, breathing in her steady cinnamon scent one more time for courage.
I’m going to need it.
Karma
The walkhome from The Daily Grind gives me time to process everything—Declan’s kiss, Reed’s almost-kiss, and according to Reed, there’s a third one coming. I just want to get inside my blue Victorian and pretend I’m a normal antique shop owner who doesn’t have complicated feelings about an entire pack.
The first drops of rain hit when I’m halfway up my front walk. I quicken my pace, digging through my purse for keys while the wind picks up and sends leaves skittering across the porch.
Keys, keys, where are my?—
I find them at the bottom of my bag, mixed up with receipts and business cards. My hands are already damp from the rain as I try to fit the key into the lock.
It doesn’t turn.
Come on,I think, jiggling the key while rain starts soaking through my cardigan. This is not the time for Victorian house dramatics.
I try again, and the key won’t even go in properly. That’s when I realize my mistake—in my post-Reed flustered state, I grabbed my shop keys instead of my house keys.
“Perfect,” I mutter as the rain turns from annoying drizzle to serious downpour. “Just absolutely perfect. Because today wasn’t complicated enough already.”
I dig through my purse again, hoping against hope that my house keys are hiding somewhere in the depths, but no luck. I’m locked out of my own house in an October storm, wearing a cardigan that’s about as waterproof as tissue paper.
This is what I get for having the most emotionally complicated day of my life.
I’m trying to figure out if I can break into my own house without looking like an actual burglar when I hear footsteps on the gravel walkway. Heavy boots, purposeful stride, heading straight for my front yard.
My heart jumps into my throat. It’s past eight o’clock, it’s pouring rain, and someone is walking up to my house in the dark. All my urban survival instincts kick in at once.
Nope. Absolutely not. Not today.
I press myself against the front door and try to make myself invisible, but the footsteps are getting closer. A dark figure emerges from the rain, tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of confidence that says he knows exactly where he’s going.
Oh hell no.
When he turns toward the porch, I move.
I’ve never been in a real fight in my life, but growing up in Providence taught me a few basic rules. Surprise is your friend, aim for vulnerable spots, and if someone’s threatening you on your own property, you don’t wait to see what they want.
I launch myself off the porch with what I later realize was probably the most undignified war cry in human history—something between a pterodactyl screech and a dying cat.
We go down in a tangle of limbs and outraged yelping that probably wakes half the neighborhood and will definitely be tomorrow’s hot gossip topic. Cold earth and wet grassimmediately soak through my jeans because the universe has decided that being emotionally overwhelmed isn’t enough—I also need to be physically uncomfortable.
My pulse hammers so hard I can hear it over the rain as adrenaline floods my system, making everything feel hyperreal—the smell of wet earth, the sound of his breathing, the way the cold rain tastes like panic and poor life choices on my lips.
My knee connects solidly with his groin—twice—and he makes a sound that’s part groan, part wheeze, doubling over in the mud.
“Stay down!” I shout over the rain, scrambling to my feet on unsteady legs. My hands shake as the adrenaline crashes through me—I’ve never actually attacked anyone before, and the reality of it makes my knees wobble. “I’ve called the police! They’re on their way!”
I haven’t called the police because my phone is dead and I’m locked out of my house, but he doesn’t need to know that.
