10
8 – weeks
“ A nother day, another fabulous blow-dry, right, Betty?” I part her hair and clip the sections with practised ease.
“Absolutely, darling! Just make sure it’s big and bouncy,” Betty says, her eyes sparkling with anticipation as she settles into the salon chair; her silver curls frame her face like a halo. I’m halfway through curling the last section when the bell jingles. I don’t even need to turn around.
Shelly Bryant. Like clockwork—same day, same gossip, same nails-on-a-chalkboard energy. The click of her heels is enough to set my teeth on edge, but I stay focused on Betty.
Curl. Hold. Release.
A light pat on my back snaps my attention. “Oh gosh, congratulations, darling! Who’s the lucky man?” Shelly chirps, dripping with fake sweetness. My blood runs cold.
The curling iron hovers midair. “Pardon? What are you on about?”
Shelly beams at me, oblivious. “Oh, on the pregnancy, dear. Congratulations!”
How the fuck does she know? Harrison wouldn’t have said anything, and neither would my dad—or anyone close to me, for that matter. But this town? News travels faster in Wattle Creek than a bushfire in summer. Betty’s eyebrows shoot up, but I stay stone-faced, swallowing the wave of nausea clawing its way up. “Pretty sure you’ve got your wires crossed, Shelly. No news here.”
She leans in, undeterred. “Oh no, dear, Mrs. Dawson mentioned it. Said you were chatting about it at the shops.” Great. Fuck’s sake. A flash of memory hits—standing in the cereal aisle, phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, chatting to Isla. Of course. Mrs. Dawson. That old busybody must’ve been lurking somewhere between the Weet-Bix and the Milo tins.
“Listen, Shelly,” I say, voice steady but sharp. “I don’t know what you think you heard, but my personal life isn’t up for grabs. Not in the shops, not here, not anywhere.”
She looks taken aback. “Well, I just thought—”
“No,” I cut her off. “You didn’t think . You assumed. And even if I was pregnant—which is none of your business—it sure as hell wouldn’t be something you heard second hand in the frozen food aisle.”
I clear my throat, swallowing down the tight knot lodged in my throat as I glance around. The salon goes pin-drop silent. Even the women pretending to read magazines are holding their breath. Betty’s watching like it’s the best episode of Days of Our Lives she’s ever seen.
“She’s got a point,” Betty chimes in, smirking. “Assuming only makes an ass out of you.”
She mutters some half-assed apology and scurries off to the waiting area, thoroughly deflated. Betty’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat as I grab the curling iron again. “Well done, darling. That was better than telly.”
“Glad I could entertain,” I mutter, releasing another perfect curl. “Some people need a reminder that not everything is their business.”
“Too right, dear.” Betty nods sagely, then leans in close, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But is it true?” A dry laugh escapes me as I bend to grab another clip.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But like I said, nobody’s business but mine.”
Betty cackles, clearly amused by my little game. Meanwhile, nausea swirls low in my gut like a bad omen. Without missing a beat, I whip out my phone and shoot off a text to Isla. Need more of those magic nausea tablets you gave me last time.
Isla: On it, babe. Luckily, I’m just at the shops. Will swing by in 15 with Callie.
Lifesaver. I just need to survive Betty’s blowout without tossing my breakfast. Fifteen minutes later, the bell jingles. Isla breezes in, Callie in her pram, all sunshine and energy, like she hasn’t been wrangling a teething baby for hours.
“Bless you,” I mutter, holding out my hand like a beggar at church.
She smirks, pulling a box of Maxolon from her bag. “You’re welcome. You’re lucky I still have my prescriptions.” I pop one in my mouth dry. She barely lets me swallow before dropping her bombshell. “So, we’re going off-roading this Saturday.”
“Ooh. Good for you.”
“No, you’re coming,” she chirps, far too cheerful. “Brad and Amelia are out, Michael doesn’t care, and I refuse to be the only female there.”
I squint my eyes at her. “I am going to assume that Harrison will be present?”
“You’re correct.”
“Yeah, nah. Take Liv with you.”
She tsks . “She’s busy.”
“Where will Callie be? I’ll babysit her.”
Her smug grin says she’s thought of everything. “Grace and Dominic will have her.”
I throw up my hands, exasperated. “Great! What about me? I’m—” The words nearly slip, but I catch myself just in time. Isla’s eyebrow arches, her face a picture of innocent expectation. “Fine,” I mutter. “But I can’t promise I’ll be good company.”
“You’re always good company, Midge.” She pulls me into a tight hug, her over-the-top enthusiasm impossible to fight off.
“That is true,” I say with a smile as I hug her back, giving her a half-hearted pat, fully aware I’ve been played—again. Then the smell hits. Vomit. Baby powder. And... something unholy lurking beneath it all.
“God, Isla. You reek.”
She pulls back, laughing like I’m the funniest person alive. “Eh, Xavier says it’s part of the charm.” I gag, waving her toward the door.
“Charm my ass. Get out before I hurl on your shoes.”
“Bye! Love you!” she sings-songs, strutting out.
The sharp bite of freshly sliced onion stings my eyes, but it’s the smell of barbequed meat drifting in from outside that hits hardest. Dad’s humming filters through the open window, an off-key medley he’s been singing for years. The doorbell rings, cutting through the evening like an unwelcome reminder. Dad’s been itching to set this up for a while now, and I’m just... playing along. What choice do I have?
I sigh, wiping my hands on my apron, and call out, “I’ll get it!” Dad doesn’t respond, too busy fiddling with the barbeque. I swallow hard and smooth down my hair out of habit, halfway to the door before pausing. What the hell am I doing?
The door swings open, and there he is—Harrison. Leaning against the doorframe like he’s posing for a bloody calendar. In his hand, a bouquet of flowers. Flowers. Baby’s breath, eucalyptus, something white and fancy, and—hydrangeas. Blue ones. Of all the fucking flowers in the world. Hydrangeas grow wild in my front and backyard, ignored by everyone. No one ever thinks to put them in a bouquet.
Except him, apparently. I want to throw them back at him, but for some reason, I can’t tear my eyes off them. He holds them out with a cocky grin, casual as ever. “Hey.”
A snort escapes me. “Flowers? What are you, eighty?”
“What, I can’t be thoughtful?” His grin widens. “Figured I shouldn’t show up empty-handed. It’s a thank you—for the invite to dinner.”
I narrow my eyes, half-smirking. “And you thought of flowers?”
He laughs, the sound deep and easy, and it slides right through me, settling somewhere low in my stomach. “What did you have me pegged for? I do have manners, Immy.”
I cross my arms. “Jury’s still out on that.”
“Well, only where it counts.” He winks. Damn him. He’s right. I’ve seen enough of him to know exactly what he means. The guy’s a savage, and I really don’t need to be thinking about that right now.
I grab the bouquet, inspecting it with feigned indifference. “Well, you nailed it. Blue flowers to match my sparkling personality.” He shrugs, completely at ease.
“Yeah, I, uh, I don’t know much about flowers.”
“Then why blue?”
“Because they reminded me of your eyes.”
He says it so easily, like he didn’t just kick my heart into overdrive. It’s pathetic, really. But it’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in ages, and I hate him for it. I don’t want to like him. I don’t want to care. He’s—well, technically we both have—made this whole situation a bloody mess, and I’m not about to let him make me soft, too. I grit my teeth. “You’re making this really difficult, you know?”
“Making what difficult?” He feigns innocence.
I glare at him, but his grin only widens. My grip tightens on the bouquet. Don’t swoon. Do not swoon. “Come on, dinner’s almost ready,” I mutter, turning away before I do something stupid—like smile back.
As he passes, his scent wraps around me, sticking to the air like a bad decision. God help me, the man always smells ridiculously good. And fuck me, his outfit doesn’t help. That Henley top is too fucking tight in all the right places, and those loose jeans? Not doing my sanity any favours. At least the hat’s forward. Backward? I’d combust on the spot.
Dinner is its usual circus of Dad’s overly invested grilling—of both the meat and Harrison.
“So, still working over at Joe’s shop?” Dad asks, tossing back the rest of his beer and settling into his chair. His tone is casual, but I know him well enough to hear the underlying weight. He knows Joe. Hell, everyone in town knows Joe.
“Yeah,” Harrison replies, picking at his napkin, his knee bouncing under the table. “Been there for a while now.” They banter about utes and repairs, Dad puffing out his chest every time Harrison compliments his “old girl.” But the second the topic shifts to where Harrison’s living, the mood cools.
Dad pauses, takes a slow sip of his beer. “So, you still living at home?”
Harrison nods, glancing at me briefly. “Yeah. But in my own space. It’s separate from the house.” His knee bounces under the table, a restless rhythm that doesn’t go unnoticed. He’s holding something back—again.
Dad hums, setting the beer down. “Not a bad setup. Guess it keeps things simple.”
Harrison shrugs. “Practical for now.”
I stop picking at my salad, watching him carefully. It’s not weird that he lives separately from his parents exactly, but... why? There’s something he’s not saying, and the question nags at me. Not that it’s any of my business. Right?
Dad leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “Right, that’s good. So, what’s the plan when the baby gets here? You got it all worked out?”
“Dad.” My voice carries a warning, but he either ignores it or, more likely, chooses not to care.
“What?” he presses, eyes narrowing.
I clear my throat, pushing some lettuce around my plate. “Can we maybe talk about that once we have it sorted?”
“Nope. Not done.” His gaze flicks between Harrison and me, landing on Harrison. “You two together or what?” Harrison clears his throat, but before he can answer, I snort. I can’t help it.
The tension in the room is unbearable.
Dad’s eyes snap to me. “What’s so funny?”
I wave him off, biting back a grin. “Nothing. Just—no, we’re not together.”
“But you’re co-parenting, right? Gotta face the consequences. Do what’s right.” Consequences. Great. Because I wasn’t already hyper-aware of my situation. I resist the urge to crawl under the table. Yes, Dad, I had sex. Thanks for the reminder.
“We haven’t really figured that out yet,” I mumble.
Harrison straightens in his chair. “We will, sir. We’re not strangers.” His voice is calm, collected. But the word strangers lands funny in my stomach, twisting in a way I can’t explain. Sure, we’re not strangers—not in the literal sense. But one night together doesn’t magically make us co-parenting experts. Or friends. Or anything more than two people thrown into a situation neither of us planned for.
Dad eyes us both, nodding slowly. “Alright. As long as the kid’s taken care of, that’s what matters.”
I jump up, grabbing the plates. “I’ll clean up.”
Harrison beats me to it. “I’ve got it. You cooked.”
I blink, caught off guard. Dad leans back, a toothpick dangling from his mouth, eyebrows raised in quiet approval. Harrison rises, heading off to the kitchen without a word. Dad stretches, cracks his neck, and shuffles over to the lounge, grabbing the remote.
I rub my stomach absently, pushing my chair in. There’s no bump yet—just a bloated belly full of salad and spare ribs. Weird. Doesn’t even feel real.
When the last plate’s dried, I walk Harrison to the door. The cool evening air slaps me in the face, sharp and brisk. He pauses on the verandah, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes flicking out toward the quiet street.
“We should probably talk about… everything.” His words linger. The weight of Dad’s grilling earlier hits me hard. We really haven’t talked about anything—none of it.
“Yeah. We probably should.”
“Co-parenting,” he says slowly, like the word itself feels foreign. “We need to figure it out. Things have changed, but we’ve got no choice now. Might as well try to make it work, right?”
My throat tightens. Co-parenting. It sounds clean, simple—like something you’d read in a brochure. But nothing about this feels simple.
“I’m not sure how it’s all supposed to look,” I admit. Honesty. It’s all I have right now.
“You could move in with me.” The words hit like a punch. “You heard inside. I’ve got a granny flat. Two bedrooms, my own space. It could work.”
I blink at him, stunned. Move in with him? The thought makes my stomach flip—whether from nerves or nausea, I can’t tell. I fold my arms across my chest, searching for something, anything, to latch onto.
“So, what? We just play happy couple? We don’t even know each other.”
“We’ll learn,” he says. “Get to know each other. I’m not forcing you into anything; it’s just a suggestion.” I don’t respond right away, my mind spinning. Moving in with Harrison. The idea sits heavy in my chest. Leaving home, leaving Dad—it’s nauseating. He’s all I’ve got. And, honestly, I’m all he has, too. Harrison watches me, but he doesn’t push.
Finally, after a long silence, he clears his throat. “Maybe we can talk more on Saturday?”
“Saturday?” I blink, thrown off.
“Off-roading,” he says, his grin spreading wide.
Oh, right. I did agree to that. “Oh, yeah. I’m so excited,” I reply, dripping sarcasm.
He winks. “See you then, Immy.”
That bloody wink. It’s cocky, confident—and it hits me in ways it shouldn’t, twisting something deep in my stomach. Totally uncalled for. I watch him walk to his Subaru, and a flutter kicks up in my stomach.
It’s the baby. Has to be.