Page 31 of Knot Your Karma
“Tell me about the restoration work,” I say. “What’s your favorite kind of project?”
“Houses like this one. Victorian-era homes that have been loved but need updating.” His eyes move around my kitchen, taking in details I probably don’t even notice anymore. “Something satisfying about adding modern conveniences without destroying the original soul.”
Watching him light up makes my pulse quicken. The same way mine does when I’m explaining the history of a maritime piece—professional passion that makes his eyes brighten and his usually quiet voice become more animated.
“What about you? What’s your favorite kind of piece to work with?”
“Maritime pieces that have been discarded or undervalued. Things people think are worthless until someone explains their actual story.” I gesture enthusiastically with my coffee mug. “Last month, someone brought me this tarnished brass instrument they found in their grandfather’s attic. They thought it might be worth twenty dollars. Turned out to be an eighteen-eighties ship’s sextant in perfect working condition. Worth about three thousand.”
“Did you tell them?”
“Of course. But I also explained why it was valuable—the craftsmanship, the history, what it would have meant to the captain who owned it.” I’m warming to the subject, gesturing with my coffee mug. “They ended up keeping it instead of selling it, because they understood it wasn’t just expensive. It was their great-grandfather’s tool, something he trusted with his life every day at sea.”
“You gave them their family history back.”
“Exactly.” I look up at him, and he’s watching me with that same focused attention Declan showed when I was explaining maritime antiques. Like what I’m saying actuallymatters to him. “That’s what I love about this work. It’s not just about objects. It’s about connecting people to their stories.”
“We do the same work,” Adrian says simply. “I preserve buildings so they can keep telling their stories. You preserve objects for the same reason.”
“Reed was right about us having things in common.”
“Reed’s smarter than he lets on.” Adrian’s expression becomes more thoughtful. “Speaking of Reed—when’s the last time you ate? Because unless I’m wrong, you’ve had coffee and adrenaline for dinner.”
I glance at the clock on my grandmother’s stove. “Oh. It’s almost nine. I was going to make something after I got back inside, but then you were here, and...” I trail off, realizing how that sounds.
“Right. That settles it.” Adrian sets down his coffee mug and starts opening my cabinets with the kind of confidence that suggests he’s comfortable in kitchens. “What do you have that I can work with?”
“You don’t have to cook for me,” I protest, even as something warm unfurls in my chest at the idea of someone taking care of me that way.
“I want to.” He glances back at me, and there’s something gentle but determined in his storm-gray eyes. “Besides, I’m starving too, and cooking for two isn’t much harder than cooking for one. What sounds good?”
“I have pasta. And I think there’s some chicken in the fridge...” I move to help him inventory my kitchen, and we keep bumping into each other in the small space—his shoulder against mine when we both reach for the same cabinet, his hand steadying me when I nearly trip over his feet.
“Perfect. I make a decent carbonara.” He’s already pulling ingredients, moving around my kitchen like he belongs there. “Though fair warning—I learned to cook from my dad, who learned from his Italian neighbor in Vermont.Very traditional techniques, lots of opinions about proper cheese.”
“That sounds amazing,” I say, settling on one of the stools at my kitchen island to watch him work. “How did you learn all this? The cooking, the restoration work?”
“My dad.” Adrian’s hands are gentle as he handles eggs, precise as he grates cheese. “He was a carpenter, taught me that working with your hands is a way of honoring things that came before. Lost him when I was twenty-two, right before I finished trade school.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He would have liked this kitchen,” Adrian says simply, and I hear the fondness underneath the grief. “He always said the best homes were the ones where someone cared enough to preserve the original heart while making room for new life.”
“That’s exactly what my grandmother believed too.”
“Smart people, our grandparents’ generation.” He starts heating a pan, and the sound of sizzling fills the comfortable quiet.
“How did you end up working with Declan and Reed? You three seem like you’ve been friends forever.”
Adrian pauses in his stirring, a small smile crossing his face. “College. Thoughfriendsisn’t exactly how it started.”
“Oh really?” I lean forward, intrigued. “Do tell.”
“Reed was my sophomore year roommate. Showed up with more hair products than I’d ever seen in one place and immediately tried to reorganize our entire dorm room according to some kind of feng shui system he’d read about online.”
I laugh, picturing a young Reed with his perfectly styled hair. “That sounds exactly like him.”
“He spent the first week trying to mediate between me and our neighbors, who were convinced I was either mute or plotting something because I didn’t talk much.” Adrian’ssmile grows wider. “Turned out we were both taking the same architectural preservation course. Reed was there for the interior design angle, I was there for the structural work.”
