Page 1 of Knot Your Karma
Karma
The red letteringon this morning’s mail is definitely not the color you want to see on bank correspondence. FINAL NOTICE stares up at me from between Grandma Rose’s brass register and my coffee mug like a judgmental relative at Thanksgiving.
Nearly three grand past due. Payment due October fifteenth. Six days.
Which explains why my jaw feels like I’ve been chewing concrete all morning.
I flip it face-down under yesterday’s bank statement—one twenty-seven in checking, because apparently, I’m having a great month—and shift the nineteen-twenties jewelry box for the fourth time today, then immediately move it back.
Everything feels wrong today, like I can’t get the display arrangement quite right, which is probably my brain’s way of avoiding the real problem sitting under that bank statement.
The silver locket beside it falls open, revealing the faded inscription I’ve memorized. Until we meet again, my darling James. A ship’s bell still crusted with dried salt sits next to a compass rose that catches the light every time I walk past.
Then there is my maybe pile. Items I’ve photographed but can’t bring myself to price and sell.
Focus, Karma. Price the locket at eighty-five. The compass rose at three-forty. The jewelry box at... I touch the mother-of-pearl inlay and my chest tightens. Maybe tomorrow.
Luckily the shop bell chimes giving me the perfect distraction.
And oh, what a distraction it is.
Holy sawdust batman. The alpha who just walked through my door has to duck to clear the frame, which should probably be my first clue that this is not going to be a normal Tuesday. Suddenly my shop feels like a dollhouse, and I’m pretty sure it’s not just because he’s tall. Work boots, tool belt, the kind of hands that actually build things instead of just complaining about what’s broken—my omega brain is definitely taking notes.
“Welcome to What Goes Around!” My voice jumps up half an octave, which always happens when attractive alphas appear in my generally customer-free establishment. I used to think it was just nerves. Now I’m not so sure. “Looking for something specific, or just seeing if my grandmother’s antique shop is actually a front for something more interesting?”
News flash. It isn’t. No matter how many times customers ask me.
He steps further inside, and I find myself taking a half-step toward him before I catch myself. My pulse quickens, and for the first time in months, the knot of anxiety in my chest loosens. My hands uncurl from fists I didn’t even realize I was making, which is weird because I definitely was not prepared for whatever this is.
Grandma Rose used to call this mycompany manners stance,but this feels different. Lessplease don’t steal anythingand moreplease notice that I exist and maybe think I’m worth talking to.
“I need someone who knows maritime antiques.” The Boston accent hits different, like he’s used to people wanting to help him figure things out. “Someone who can tell me about more than just this looks old and ocean-y.”
My fingers stop twisting my vintage bracelet. For the first time in months, my hands aren’t shaking when a customer approaches the counter.
Maritime antiques—that’s my territory.
“Well, you just hit the jackpot.” I move toward the back corner where ship wheels and brass fittings catch the afternoon light through salt-stained windows. “Maritime antiques are kind of my thing. What are we talking about? Ship’s chronometer? Sextant? Please tell me it’s not another ships-in-a-bottle situation, because those are impossible to authenticate properly.”
He follows, and I catch myself unconsciously mirroring his movements, staying just close enough that our arms brush when I gesture toward the display cases.
“You seem to know what you’re talking about.”
“I better—I’m fluent in antiques, and maritime pieces are my native language.” I do a little mock bow that would’ve made my grandmother roll her eyes. “Come on, let me show you what I mean. Fair warning though—my best friend says I turn into a maritime encyclopedia with feelings when I get started.”
“That sounds like exactly what I need.” He settles back slightly, arms crossed, but it doesn’t feel closed off. More like he’s settling in for a good story.
“This is a ship’s compass from eighteen sixty-three.” I unlock the case and lift out the piece, trying not to notice how my hands are suddenly steady for the first time all morning. “See these cardinal points? Hand-etched, not machine-stamped. This baby came off a whaling vessel—see the patina pattern here? That’s from Atlantic salt spray, and it guidedships through waters that could kill you if you were one degree off course.”
And yes, I realize I just called a priceless antiquethis babywhile talking to a complete stranger, but maritime pieces make me lose all sense of professional dignity.
He leans closer when I point to the maker’s mark, his shoulder brushing mine. Instead of stepping away like I usually do, I find myself lingering in the warmth of the contact, my skin tingling where we touch. “How can you tell all that just by looking?”
“The brass composition, the etching style, the wear patterns.” I trace the compass edge with my fingertip, hyperaware that he’s watching my hands. I find myself leaning closer when he examines the markings. “Everything tells a story about where it’s been and who owned it. When you know how to look, every piece tells you about the people who owned it, where it’s been, what it meant to them.”
“Stories.” Something shifts in his tone, warmer now. Almost as though he is flirting with me.
“You don’t believe that?”
