Page 30 of Knot Your Karma
I actually laugh at that. “Fair enough.”
“Come on.” He jerks his head toward my very locked door.
“Come on where?”
“Inside. You’re soaked and it’s cold.” He pulls something from his pocket—a small leather case filled with thin metal tools. “Old house locks are my specialty.”
Of course he can pick locks. Of course the third pack member is not only gorgeous but also mysteriously competent at breaking and entering.
“Is that... legal?”
“It’s your house,” he points out reasonably. “Just solving a problem.”
He moves to the front door with the same purposeful confidence he showed walking up the driveway, and I follow, still dripping and trying to process what just happened. He examines the lock for about thirty seconds, his movements precise and economical, then selects a tool and starts working with the kind of focused concentration that suggests he’s done this before.
“Construction work,” he explains, selecting another tool. “Get locked out of jobsites. Occupational hazard.”
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 actuallyseeswhat makes this place special.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, my voice slightly breathlessfrom 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.
