Page 2 of Knot Your Karma
“I’m starting to.” His eyes meet mine, and there’s definitely interest there. He’s definitely flirting with me. “What else can you tell me?”
I warm up, moving from piece to piece like I’m conducting a very geeky orchestra. “This barometer—British naval issue, eighteen seventies. See the maker’s mark? J. Harrington, Boston. And this chronometer? Ship navigation depended on these. One degree off and you could miss your destination by hundreds of miles.”
He tracks my movements, actually listening to every word instead of checking his phone. “You really get excited about this stuff.”
“It’s not often someone lets me show off without their eyes glazing over.” I gesture toward the chronometer with maybe a little too much enthusiasm. “Most people hearmaritime antiques and immediately start looking for the exit. Or they think it just means anything with an anchor slapped on it.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere.” The way he says it, looking directly at me, makes warmth creep up my neck.
“This compass rose is probably my favorite piece though.” I stop at the last case, and my voice goes a little softer. “Brass and mother-of-pearl inlay, custom commissioned work. Someone loved this enough to pay serious money for it—we’re talking months of a sailor’s wages.”
“Okay, I’m officially impressed. What else are you an expert at that I should know about?”
“Thanks. It’s not often I get to show off for someone who seems genuinely interested. So, what are you looking for? If it’s maritime, I might have some ideas.”
His expression turns more serious. “It’s a compass. Antique, probably mid-eighteen hundreds. Family piece that’s been passed down for generations.”
My pricing pen slips from suddenly numb fingers and clatters onto the glass counter like the universe’s way of providing sound effects for my internal panic. I scramble to catch it, miss completely, and watch it roll directly toward the edge because apparently my coordination has decided to abandon ship along with my common sense.
“Okay, that’s...” I bend to retrieve the pen, buying time while my heart attempts to stage a prison break through my throat. “That’s pretty general. Every family thinks their compass is special. What makes yours different?”
Please say it has purple polka dots. Please say it’s made of solid gold. Please say literally anything except what I think you’re about to say.
“Distinctive engraving around the edge. Maritime symbols—anchors, ships. And there’s a family inscription on the back about finding true north and always coming home.”
The pen slips from my fingers again. This time I leave it onthe floor. He starts to lean down to get it, I duck down at the same time, and we nearly knock heads. “Sorry, I?—”
“No, I got it?—”
We both freeze, his face six inches from mine, and I forget what pens are for.
“Family inscriptions are beautiful.” My voice sounds strange even to me when I finally remember how to speak. “Really... really special.”
Please be talking about literally any other compass in the entire world.
“The thing is it went missing recently.” He runs his thumb along my counter edge while he talks. “My brother made some questionable choices, and the compass went missing.”
No freaking way. It can’t be. “Your brother?”
“Blake. Blake Mitchell.” Fingers rake through dark hair—sawdust sifts onto my counter like the world’s worst snow globe. “I’m Declan, by the way. Should have mentioned that earlier.”
The floor decides to cosplay as a carnival ride. My mouth goes drier than overcooked turkey. The universe has a sick, twisted sense of humor, and apparently, I’m the punchline.
Blake’s brother. This gorgeous, cedar-scented man who just spent twenty minutes looking at me like I might actually be worth discovering is my narcissistic ex’s brother.
And he’s looking for the compass I stole and sold in a fit of righteous fury.
“Blake Mitchell,” I repeat, like maybe saying it will make it not true.
“Yeah. You know, for someone who deals with maritime antiques, you’re looking a little seasick right now.”
I grip the counter edge. “I’m fine. Just... processing. Blake Mitchell, and this compass...”
“It’s for his bonding ceremony this winter.” His whole face changes when he talks about family—jaw unclenching, eyes warming. The kind of expression that makes you wantto help him with whatever he needs, even if you’re the reason he needs help. “Five generations of Mitchell men have carried this compass into their bonding ceremonies. It’s supposed to represent finding your true north, your permanent harbor.”
Five generations.
Five fucking generations, and I sold it to someone who specializes in making things disappear forever.
