Page 4 of Knot Your Karma
Blake’s brother. Blake’s gorgeous, cedar-scented alphabrother who does meaningful work and looks at me like I might be something special.
And I just lied to his face about stealing his family’s most precious tradition.
I stare at Declan’s business card. Second Chances Restoration. Historic Preservation Specialists.
My phone buzzes.
Destiny: How’s the shop today? Any cute customers?
Me: You have no idea. And it’s complicated.
Destiny: Complicated how? Good complicated or bad complicated?
Me: The kind where karma might actually be real, and mine is about to run me over with a truck.
Destiny: Do I need to come over there? Explain.
Me: The kind where I think I’m in love with someone I can never have.
Destiny: WHAT. I’m coming over.
Me: No, wait. I need to figure this out first.
Destiny: Karma Rose, if you don’t start making sense in the next five minutes...
I put the phone down and look around my shop. This is my life now. Hiding behind Victorian furniture, texting my best friend about boys I can’t have because I make spectacularly bad choices.
I press my face into my knees and can still smell rain-soaked wood on my cardigan where his shoulder brushed mine. The scent that had me practically purring five minutesago now makes my stomach clench. Same fragrance, completely different effect. My body is still humming with whatever that recognition is—the kind of biological response Blake never triggered, not even at the beginning.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Because somewhere out there, Declan Mitchell is continuing his search for his family’s compass. The compass that’s sitting in some private collection because I decided revenge was more important than moral high ground.
And this winter, Blake is going to have his bonding ceremony without the family heirloom.
The loan notice is still face-down under my bank statement, but suddenly nearly three grand seems like the least of my problems.
I look down at his business card—Second Chances Restoration—and laugh, but it comes out more like a sob. The universe’s idea of a joke: show me exactly what I’ve been looking for, then make sure I’m the last person who deserves to have it.
This is what I get for dating a narcissist and then making petty theft my closure strategy.
If only.
Karma
Twenty-three dollarsand forty-seven cents in crumpled bills scatter across Grandma Rose’s oak counter like evidence of my spectacular financial failure.
I’m smoothing out a five-dollar bill that looks like it survived a washing machine when the shop door slams open hard enough to make the antique ship’s bell sound like it’s having a nervous breakdown.
“Where is he?” Destiny storms past my Victorian furniture display like she’s leading a one-woman army, coffee-stained apron still tied around her waist because apparently she dropped everything to stage this intervention. Her dark eyes scan my shop like she expects to find threats lurking behind the armoire. “Where’s the bastard who hurt you? Because I just closed up early and I am ready to commit violence.”
I look up from my pathetic pile of small bills. “What are you?—”
“Don’t.” She plants her hands on her hips, positions herself squarely between me and the door like she’s prepared to bodily prevent anyone from getting to me. Her winged eyeliner looks sharp enough to cut glass when she’s in full protective mode. “You texted meI think I’m in trouble, bigtroubleandkarma might be realand then go radio silent for two hours. I’ve been stress-cleaning my espresso machine and planning seventeen different ways to hide a body.”
“Destiny, it’s not?—”
“Nope.” One perfectly manicured hand cuts through the air. She takes a delicate sniff, and her spine goes rigid. Without a word, she shrugs off her cardigan and drapes it around my shoulders, wrapping me in warmth that smells like home. “We’re not doing this where tourists might wander in. Lock up. We’re walking, and you’re talking.”
