Tangled Desires (Wattle Creek #3)

2

Just a Girl - No Doubt

W hy I let Isla convince me to come here is beyond me.

I knew we’d end up at the shop, knew Harrison would be here, yet I still agreed to come. The nerve of this motorhead. It’s none of his bloody business who I’m seeing later or what I’m doing.

And now, thanks to Isla, he knows it’s a date. Except, it’s not.

It’s just me and Jesse, two acquaintances grabbing a drink. He’s a family friend—always has been—but dating him? Not on my radar. God knows my dating life has been a disaster. I’m over the endless swiping and trying to find the perfect guy. I’m not here for a serious thing, just some fun and no strings attached. Seeing Harrison get all worked up over me going on a date? Yeah, it’s a bonus. He’s been a pain in my ass ever since Isla started hanging with Xavier. Always teasing, always pushing my buttons. He keeps pestering me, practically vibrating with curiosity, asking for the name. “Come on, Imogen, just spit it out,” he insists, leaning in like he’s on the edge of his seat.

Michael jumps in. “Just tell him, Imogen. He won’t stop until you do.” Can the ground swallow me whole?

“Ugh. If you must know, Jesse Toole,” I blurt out, cracking under the pressure, which is so unlike me. The second Harrison bursts out laughing, I regret it. I shoot Michael a look, hoping for maturity, but nope—he’s got that smug, unhelpful grin. Not exactly my finest moment—and definitely not the reaction I was expecting.

“Jesse? You’re going out with Jesse Toole?” Harrison’s face twists in disbelief. Oh, how tempting it would be to wipe that smug expression off his annoyingly handsome face. Correction: infuriatingly handsome face. Get it together, Imogen. You’re better than this.

“Wow, scraping the bottom of the barrel, huh, sweetheart?” Harrison drawls, his voice oozing that infuriating, condescending charm he’s perfected. Who does he think he is?

“Excuse me?” I say, appalled. “Why are you such a prick?”

“Just calling it like I see it, Immy,” he says casually, like he didn’t just insult me. And of course, he uses that nickname, the one that grates on my nerves—and, annoyingly, somewhere deep down, I don’t entirely hate. Ugh, I need a reality check.

“Yeah, well, don’t,” I bite back, arms crossed like a shield against his ridiculous audacity.

“You know, his name really suits him. The guy’s a tool,” Harrison adds, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. Michael chuckles next to him, and I shoot him a look.

“Don’t laugh at him. You’re just fueling the fire.”

Michael shrugs, not backing down. “Sorry, Imogen, but he’s got a point.”

“Of course he does,” I mutter under my breath. I turn to Isla. “Can we go now?”

Isla grabs the part from Harrison, says her goodbyes, and I’m already out the door. As we walk away, Harrison calls after me. “Say hi to Toolie for me, Immy. Told ya I know everyone.”

I flip him the bird without turning around, and his laughter follows us as we head to Isla’s car.

“Sorry, Midge, for throwing you under the bus like that. I didn’t even think,” Isla says as she buckles herself in.

I let out a long sigh. “It’s fine. Nothing I can’t handle. He just loves to push my buttons.”

“Yeah, but you let him.”

“No, I don’t,” I retort. “He’s just… ugh . So infuriating sometimes.”

“You know what I think?”

“What?” I ask, bracing for the next ridiculous thing she’s about to say.

“I think the two of you just need to fuck out whatever weird tension’s between you two,” Isla says with a laugh.

“Yeah, right. Me and Harrison?” I scoff, the very idea laughable. Isla just hums, putting the car in drive. Her words, though? They hang in the air like a question that doesn’t quite have an answer yet.

I remember the first time I noticed Harrison Price. Really noticed him. If it hadn’t been for Isla dragging me to some backyard pool hang-out, I would’ve blissfully avoided the whole situation. But nope, there he was, sitting on the ledge of the pool—grinning, shirtless, tattooed, and very aware of how good he looked. And ever since that day? He’s been stuck in my life.

Like a persistent fly buzzing around your head. If he weren’t so cocky, so unapologetically Harrison, maybe he could’ve been a decent friend. A solid guy to hang out with. You know, normal. But let’s not get crazy here. Harrison Price is not here to be my friend. He’s a mutual acquaintance at best. The kind you nod at across the room but would never willingly sit next to unless forced by seating arrangements. Could there be something more there? A possibility?

A part of me hates that I even entertain the thought. Ha, absolutely not.

Sure, I get it. Harrison is undeniably attractive. I’m not blind. The tattoos? Annoyingly hot. His muscular build? Yeah, whatever. And that irritating, cocky charm he oozes like it’s his full-time job?

Pass. Over my dead body would I fall for any of it. Let alone end up in his lap. Nope. Not happening. Not in this lifetime or the next.

Not a chance in hell.

Sliding into a little blue number with ruffles, just the right kind of short, a grin tugs at my lips. Turning this way and that in the mirror, the dress clings in all the right places. Perfect . Loose curls fall into place as I run my fingers through them, making sure every strand behaves. No room for rogue hair tonight. A swipe of gloss over my lips, a flick of mascara, and it’s all coming together. I grab my Marc Jacobs Daisy perfume, my signature scent. Spraying it into the air in front of me, I walk into the mist, doing a quick shimmy for good measure. It’s a ritual at this point.

“That’ll do it,” I mutter, cocking a brow at the mirror before heading out.

No bloke is ever going to rattle me enough to stop me from going out and having a good time. Harrison’s stupidly charming grin flashes through my mind—his tattoos that climb up his arms, those muscles flexing when he works. A weird flutter kicks low in my stomach.

Butterflies? Surely not.

He teases, calls me ‘Immy’, like it’s his God-given right, and somehow gets under my skin every damn time. Isla might have a point—maybe I do let him—but it’s not on purpose. Around him, it’s like my brain short-circuits.

Handbag tucked under my arm, I walk downstairs to the lounge where Dad’s out cold on the couch, two empty beer bottles on the table. His snoring fills the room, his face lined with exhaustion. Landscaping jobs have been piling up since Mum left, and he works himself to the bone to keep us afloat. I’ve been doing my part too, taking on every client I can at the salon to help. Just the two of us, holding it together. Leaning down, I press a quick kiss to his head before slipping out the door, pulling it shut softly behind me.

The taxi drops me off right outside The Loose Lasso. Texting Jesse, I’m here , I tuck my phone back into my bag and step inside. The place is buzzing—loud as hell and packed with familiar faces and a few I don’t recognise. Jesse’s reply pings back. Outside, at the back. Behind the bar.

I spot him straight away. He’s grinning as I walk up, all sandy blonde hair and stubble, chiselled jawline—that tall, Liam Hemsworth vibe going on. Cute, yeah, I’ll give him that. But he’s not Harrison attractive. Oh, go away.

But it’s true. Where Harrison is all rough edges, zero filter, and muscles that should come with a warning label, Jesse’s softer, more polished. Definitely the type who books eyebrow appointments and trims every inch of body hair. Probably moisturises, too.

He greets me with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. “Imogen. It’s good to see you.”

“You, too. It’s been a minute,” I reply, shifting my bag on my shoulder.

“Yeah, it has. Sorry for the formal get-up,” he says, gesturing at his shirt and tie. “I only wrapped up work an hour ago.”

I glance around, taking in the fairy lights strung under the shelter, giving the space a soft glow. The large fans in the corners hum quietly, pushing hot air around—not exactly refreshing, but better than nothing. “No worries. You clean up alright,” I say with a smirk.

He chuckles, stepping aside to let someone pass. “Shit, it’s packed tonight.”

I nod. “Yeah, it’s always like this. Every time I’ve been here, anyway.”

He leans closer to be heard over the chatter. “Makes sense. Good drinks, good vibe.”

“Can’t argue with that,” I say, scanning for a free table. “Now let’s find somewhere we’re not standing in the way.”

We find a spot toward the side, where tall bar tables and stools are tucked just out of the way. It’s quieter here, or at least as quiet as it gets in a packed pub. His mum was mates with mine, back when Mum still played ‘being a parent.’ That’s how Jesse and I met in high school, before Mum skipped town and left her other kids—Cameron and Tommy, my half-brothers, technically—in the dust. The whole thing’s a bloody mess, but Jesse? He’s always been easy to talk to. As we settle in, he starts chatting about real estate, his face lighting up as he talks about helping people find their dream homes.

“It’s honestly the best feeling,” he says, leaning on the table. “Seeing their faces when everything falls into place—it makes all the headaches worth it.”

“Sounds like you’ve found your thing.”

“Yeah, I think I have,” he says, grinning. “So, what are you doing these days? Are you still a hairdresser?”

“Of course! What else would I be doing?” I huff a laugh, and Jessie shrugs.

Madeleine—my partner—went to our high school. She already owned the salon but put out feelers about five years ago for someone to help her out. She was pregnant and needed to lighten the load. I jumped on it, and now, three kids later, we’ve turned the place into something pretty damn amazing. Honestly, I love working with her. She’s a total powerhouse.

Jessie laughs. “No surprise there. You always did have great hair back then. Still do.”

“Yeah, well, might as well use my talents somewhere,” I quip, flicking my hair over my shoulder for dramatic effect.

He leans in just slightly. “You look stunning, by the way.”

“Thanks,” I reply, keeping my voice steady while mentally fighting off the blush creeping up my neck. Stay cool, Imogen.

“Drink?”

“Wine. Red. Please.”

“Done,” he says before disappearing back inside.

The air out the back of the pub clings like a second skin—stuffy, thick, January heat still going strong. Perfect weather for sun and bikinis, not for slapping on makeup just to watch it melt off my face. Sweat and foundation make one hell of a gross cocktail, and here I am, stuck in it. Lovely. Waiting for Jesse to come back, I thumb through Instagram, the screen’s glow bouncing off my face. Then it hits—the voice. Deep, rough, smug as hell.

“Fancy seeing you here, sugar.”

Goosebumps trail up my arms at that gravelly voice, cutting through the chatter. Of course, it had to be Harrison. Perfect timing. Leaning against the wall, Harrison’s all smirks and swagger—jeans slung low, t-shirt clinging to his annoyingly ripped frame, tattoos on display like a walking advert for bad decisions. Dusty work boots say he’s come straight from the job, but that cocky grin? That’s just Harrison in his natural state.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the man of my dreams.”

“Dreams, huh? Knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“Please, Harrison,” I snap, arms folding tight. “The only dream I’ve got involves you not bothering me.”

“You wound me, Immy,” he says, clutching at his chest. “Guess that makes you the only one who can fix it, doesn’t it?”

A snort escapes before I can stop it. “Don’t flatter yourself. That’s nothing.” That laugh of his—deep, unbothered—rumbles out as he steps closer, towering now.

“You always do have a way with your words.”

“And you’ve always been a pain in my ass,” I shoot back, refusing to budge as he narrows the gap.

“Oh, I could be.”

“Could be what?”

“Buried in your ass,” he says smoothly. “I’m game if you are.”

Yeah, well, I walked right into that one, didn’t I? Should’ve known better—Harrison never misses an opportunity to turn a conversation into something dirty. His wink seals the deal, cocky and infuriating, and the scoff rips out of me, loud and deliberate. But what really gets under my skin, what really pisses me off, is the heat curling low in my belly like it has any business being there. My thighs clamp tight, a desperate attempt to crush the traitorous spark.

“You know, I’ve imagined that fiery mouth of yours doing all kinds of things.” A scoff escapes me. “Wanna know what I’ve imagined?”

“Absolutely not,” I snap, stepping back toward the stool behind me, trying to put some distance between us. It doesn’t work—he steps closer, closing it right back up.

“Your pretty little mouth,” he murmurs. “Wrapped around my cock.”

Ugh. My hand shoves against his chest instinctively. “Does that kind of gutter talk actually work on women?”

“It works on some,” he says with a shrug. “And something tells me you don’t hate it as much as you’d like me to believe.” My teeth clamp down on my bottom lip, hesitation crackling like static in the air. The urge to slap that arrogant grin off his face clashes violently with the deep, insistent ache pulsing low in my belly—a maddening betrayal of just how much his filthy words are getting to me. And the worst part? He knows it.

“But you’re not like most women.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Most women would be intrigued. Turned on by a few choice words. Eager for me to fuck them. You know, cut through the bullshit and get straight to the point.” He’s close now, too close, and I feel the weight of his words sink in as his lips curl up in a knowing grin. “But not you.”

“Yes, well clearly, I’m not like most women.”

“No, you’re most certainly not.”

“Great,” I snap back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Now that we’ve established that, can you piss off?”

“Nuh uh,” he tsks. “I only just got here.”

“And what exactly is your reason for being here?”

“Looking for you,” his grin widens. “Where’s the tool?”

“Buying me a drink,” I shoot back, raising an eyebrow. “None of your business, really.”

“And yet you told me, anyway.” He leans in a little, eyes flicking over me. “I’m just making sure you’re being looked after.”

“Don’t play the concerned friend, Harrison. We both know that’s not your style.”

His smile drops, eyes narrowing with something. “We both know I’m not here as a friend, sugar.”

Sugar. God, he’s insufferable. First Immy , now this? Why does he insist on giving me these ridiculous nicknames? Like we’re starring in some cheesy rom-com where I’m supposed to swoon every time he opens his mouth. Jesse returns, before a response can leave my mouth, beer in one hand and my glass of wine in the other. Salvation at last.

He hands me the wine, and I practically inhale half of it. The tension between me and Harrison eases just a little, but I’m not letting my guard down.

“Sorry, that took forever. The bar was so busy,” Jesse mutters, looking between me and Harrison like he’s sizing the situation up. I take another sip, and the red works its magic, easing the tension just enough. For now. Harrison clears his throat.

“Harrison,” Jesse acknowledges, his frown almost imperceptible, before turning his attention to me. “Do you two know each other?”

“He’s… a friend of a friend,” I answer with a shrug that screams indifference.

“Friend of a friend?” Harrison cuts in with a dramatic tsk . “Don’t sell us short. We go way back, right?” I know he’s waiting for a reaction, waiting for me to rise to the bait. Instead, I turn on my heel, giving him nothing but a cold shoulder.

“How do you two know each other?” I ask Jesse, ignoring the heat prickling at the back of my neck. Jesse frowns, then clears his throat.

“Uh, our dads are... used to be friends.” Harrison’s scoff is subtle but pointed. “Are you staying, or…?” he asks, but I cut him off before Harrison can respond.

“No. And he was just leaving,” I say firmly, shooting Harrison a warning look. He only grins wider, before leaning in close to whisper in my ear.

“I’ll be waiting for you inside when you get bored of this prick.” It’s low and dirty, like a promise he knows I’ll hate how much I want to keep. He winks at me and turns to walk back into the pub. Trying to compose myself, I turn my attention back to Jesse, who looks bewildered.

“What was that all about?” I take a deep breath, willing the heat in my cheeks to dissipate.

“Just Harrison being Harrison. He’s a pain in my ass.”

“Seems more like he has a thing for you,” Jesse mutters, his voice laced with something unreadable.

“Oh, please, Harrison has a thing for pissing people off. It’s his favourite pastime,” I scoff.

Jesse smirks. “Guess it runs in the family, then.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, cocking a brow at him.

He chuckles, tipping his beer toward me. “You know, like father, like son.”

I frown, Jesse’s words scratching at my brain like an itch I can’t ignore. “Are you talking about Joe?”

Jesse’s smirk tightens, his voice dropping low. “Not Joe. His biological father…” He pauses, clearly fishing for a reaction.

“I’m not following.”

Jesse shrugs. “Didn’t know, huh? Harrison’s real dad was a piece of work.” His attempt at humour lands like a lead balloon. My jaw tightens.

“Hilarious,” I deadpan. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

He falters, but only slightly. “Thought you’d like to know who you’re dealing with.”

“I didn’t know Joe wasn’t his real dad,” I mutter, more to myself than Jesse, but his ears twitch.

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s not common knowledge,” he says, suddenly sheepish.

“Then maybe it’s not your business to share, is it?” Harrison’s past—whatever it involves—isn’t bait for Jesse’s gossip. As much as I want to throttle him sometimes, no one should drag him through the mud.

“Just letting ya know, is all I’m saying,” he shrugs again.

“I think I can handle Harrison just fine without any unsolicited advice.” The tension between us settles heavily. I down the rest of my wine. “I’m getting another drink,” I say, already turning away.

Something about him joking about Harrison doesn’t sit right. So much for a good night out. This night just needs a reset. Before I even get the chance to order, I spot Michael at a table with a bunch of guys. Great. That only means Harrison’s still somewhere close by. I flag the bartender. “Another red, please.”

The glass lands in my hand quick enough, and I’m about to take a sip when his scent hits—spicy, woodsy, like a bonfire you know better than to touch. Of course, it’s him.

“Bored already, sugar?” Harrison’s voice slides in suddenly.

“Not in the mood.”

“Called it,” he drawls. “Told you that bloke’s a tool. I’m never wrong.”

I glance his way, and there’s that grin—but it vanishes the second he catches my expression. His face drops, and before I can brush him off, his hand grips my chin, tilting my face toward his.

“What happened? Did that idiot say something?” The edge in his voice throws me.

I jerk back. “No. Just leave it, Harrison.”

“You’re lying,” he presses, his eyes narrowing. “I can see it all over your face.”

“I’m not! It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit. If he—”

“He didn’t do anything, alright? Just leave it!” My voice cuts through, but it’s no good.

“So, he said something,” he growls. “What did he say?” I swallow the words clawing to escape. Harrison’s jaw sets like steel, and that wild look in his eyes is all the warning I get.

“Fine. I’ll find out myself.”

And just like that, he’s storming off, cutting through the crowd with that bullheaded determination. I grab at his arm, but he shakes me off like I’m nothing more than an afterthought.

“Harrison, don’t!” I call out, but he’s already pushing through the back door, laser-focused on Jesse. Perfect. One night, one drink is all I wanted—was that too much to ask?

But no, now I’m going to be stuck in the middle between two grown men squaring off like idiots. A chill night? A fun time?

Yeah, that’s long gone.