Page 17 of Knot Your Karma
Karma
“So where exactly are wemeeting 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. Trywilling 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 throughthe 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 myenthusiasm 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 andwelcoming, 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...karmicname, wouldn’t you say? Especially given how these family treasures have such fascinating journeys from one home to another.”
