Tangled Desires (Wattle Creek #3)

12

weeks

T he smell of cleaning products and too much hand sanitiser fills the air of the doctor’s clinic.

I watch Harrison out of the corner of my eye, noting the way his knee bounces erratically and how his hands keep fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. It’s like a constant wave of nervous energy rolling off him. Without thinking, I place my hand on his knee, and he stills instantly.

The shift is subtle, but I can feel the tension in his muscles ease beneath my touch.

“Imogen Whitley?”

Harrison’s on his feet in an instant, and my hand falls to my side. Wordlessly, I follow him into the room, nerves buzzing under my skin. The receptionist offers a polite smile.

“The sonographer will be with you shortly. You can go ahead and get ready—lie down on the bed, lift your shirt over your belly, and lower your pants just a bit at the waistband.”

Harrison shoves a hand into his pocket, smirking. “You didn’t tell me there’d be a strip show.”

“God, you’re impossible,” I mutter, already yanking my shirt up.

He drops into the chair beside the bed. “Is the sonographer a woman? I hope she is.”

I scowl at him, tugging my pants down just enough. “Relax, you neanderthal, or they’ll kick you out.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he mutters under his breath, settling deeper into his seat, arms crossed.

The door swings open, and a cheery woman walks in. Harrison’s shoulders drop immediately. Lame. He’s always more fun when he’s worked up. “Hi, Imogen. I’m Kasey,” she says brightly, turning to Harrison. “You must be Dad.”

Harrison smirks, sitting up straighter. “Mhm. Uh, that’s me.”

Kasey rolls the machine closer. “Alrighty, let’s take a look at that baby. Ready?”

The gel touches my stomach, and I brace for the chill—but it’s warm, catching me off guard. Before I can process that, Harrison’s hand slides over mine, steady and sure. I don’t expect it, and the weight of it steadies me—I hadn’t realised it was shaking until it stops. The screen flickers, and a small, fuzzy bean-like shape fills it. The sonographer smiles, her voice soft.

“Ah, there’s your little baby.”

I blink, my throat tightening. Harrison leans in, his face closer to the screen than mine, his focus unshakable. She presses a few buttons, shifts the wand slightly, and then—it happens. The room fills with the sound of a heartbeat. Our baby’s heartbeat.

It’s steady, strong, and impossibly real.

Harrison’s hand squeezes mine, and his eyes widen. That cocky grin of his? Gone. What’s left is something raw, almost vulnerable, and it punches straight through me. For once, he’s not just Harrison Price, the annoying, smirking bastard. Sitting there, completely floored, he’s just Dad.

The father of my child.

This is his first time, too. His first real moment of grasping what’s happening. The way his hand tightens around mine, the tension in his jaw—it hits me. He’s just as terrified as I am. Maybe even more. It’s weirdly unsettling but also grounding. We’re both stumbling through the same unknown.

“Look at that,” Kasey says, pointing to the screen. “There’s the head, the little hands...”

Harrison leans in, squinting. “That’s the head? No way. It’s… it looks like a jelly bean.”

“They look like that at this stage. Trust me, they’ll get cuter.”

“You’re sure it’s not two heads? Like, twins?”

“Jesus Christ, Harrison,” I mutter, shooting him a sharp side-eye.

Kasey chuckles. “Nope, just one baby. You’re safe from double trouble.”

“Alright, good.” Harrison shifts in his seat, clearly relieved. “I mean, I could handle it, but... you know, one’s enough for now.”

“Right,” Kasey says, throwing me a knowing grin. “You’re doing great.”

I let out a slow breath, watching Harrison. He’s all awkward questions and over-the-top reactions, but there’s something in the way he’s watching the screen—intense, almost reverent. For once, his effort doesn’t piss me off. He’s trying .

“Everything looks perfect,” Kasey says, clicking through the screen. “Strong heartbeat, great movement, and the baby’s measuring exactly on track.”

“Just one healthy baby,” Kasey adds, smirking. “And honestly? You two make a beautiful couple. That baby’s going to be adorable.”

I’m halfway to correcting her. “Oh no, we’re not—”

Harrison jumps in, cutting me off. “What she means is, thank you, Kasey.” His hand tightens around mine again, and before I can yank it away, he brings it to his lips with that infuriating smirk.

“Can you not ?” I snap, yanking my hand back, heat rushing up my neck.

Kasey laughs outright now, clearly entertained. “Couple or not, you’ve got some serious chemistry.” She hands me the little white folder with the ultrasound pictures. “Congrats, you two. That’s going to be one adorable lil’ baby.”

The sonogram folder sits in my lap, my fingers skimming its edges. Harrison’s car growls beneath us, and the rumble stirs the nausea that’s been a pain in the ass since the appointment. I press a hand to my belly, hoping it’ll calm down, but it’s Harrison who surprises me.

He eases off the accelerator, the car’s vibrations smoothing out. The nausea lessens, and for once, he’s done something useful without running his mouth.

I pull out my ginger gummies, popping two into my mouth. The sharp tang hits instantly, settling my stomach. Out of the corner of my eye, his smirk is already forming.

“What?” My brow lifts.

“Told you they were good,” he drawls, that teasing lilt back in his voice.

“Mhm. Sure.” He holds his palm out.

I frown. “If you think I’m holding your hand, you’re out of your damn mind.”

His laugh is low and rough, vibrating through the car. “Easy there, tiger. Just give me a gummy.”

Right. I drop one into his hand, trying to ignore how his fingers grip the steering wheel, strong and relaxed, or how the sound of him sucking on the gummy sends heat coiling low in my stomach. Stupid fucking hormones.

“If I wanted to hold your hand, baby,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, “I’d take it. No asking, no gentle shit with you. You’d deal.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Yeah,” he grins, “but you love it.”

His car stops in front of my house, and I’m already reaching for the handle when his voice cuts through the silence. “So… about where we’re living,” he says, his tone tighter now.

I freeze, side-eyeing him. “What about it?”

He fidgets, jaw working. “Have you considered moving in?”

I feel a knot form in my stomach, my mind running at a million miles per hour. I think about it, but the idea doesn’t sit right. Moving in with him? I’m not sure I’m ready for that. But more than that, I still need to talk to my dad about it. I need his guidance. Twenty-eight years old, and I still find myself relying on my father’s direction. I’ll always need it.

I cross my arms, trying to steady myself. “We’re not playing house, Harrison. I told you I can handle myself. We can still co-parent and not live together.”

The words come out a little sharper than I intended, but the last thing I need right now is to give up my space, my sanity, and the little independence I have left.

“Imogen.” His voice is strained, the frustration clear in his tone. “You’re pregnant. I’m just trying to help. Why do you have to be so fucking difficult?”

“Because you keep acting like this is more than it is. We don’t need to live together for you to help.”

“Yeah, I get it. We’re not a couple. You’ve hammered that home,” he mutters. “But I still care, alright? I want to be there—for you and the baby.”

Deep down, I know it’s not just that. Letting him in like this—sharing a roof, a life—it’s crossing that line I’ve been desperately trying to keep intact. We’re already a tangled mess. Throw cohabitation into the mix, and it’d be a recipe for disaster. I’d be setting myself up for heartbreak, and I’ve already had enough of that to last a lifetime.

But his face. Damn his face. For once, there’s no smirk, no snark. Just Harrison, stripped back, his shoulders tense, his jaw clenched. Vulnerability looks strange on him, almost out of place, and it twists something in my chest I don’t care to name. I let out a sigh, long and weary, trying to steady the storm in my chest.

“Fine. I’ll think about it.”

His whole body shifts, shoulders dropping as relief washes over him. “That’s all I’m asking, Immy.”

I grab the second sonogram folder from my bag, toss it onto the seat, and climb out of the car. When I reach the house, his car’s still idling, but he doesn’t leave until I’m inside. Even after the engine cuts, his words linger, a challenge I’m not sure I’m ready to face.

Brad and Amelia’s house looks like something out of a Pinterest board: crisp white walls, oversized windows framed with climbing vines, lavender bushes perfuming the air. It’s enough to make me sick with envy. Not that I need any help with nausea lately. At twelve weeks pregnant, every other whiff of something funky has me dry-heaving. But the smell of sizzling meat hits me the moment I step inside, and for once, my stomach doesn’t revolt. Hunger roars to life instead, fierce and demanding.

Finally, a win.

Inside, Amelia flits around her pristine kitchen, all smiles and soft tones, while Bradley mans the BBQ outside, a beer in hand like the picture-perfect host. About bloody time these two dragged themselves out of their love bubble to socialise.

“Thought you two were gonna hibernate forever,” I tease with a smile.

Amelia grins, slicing through a baguette. “We’ve been busy. You know, life things .”

Life things. Sure. I don’t miss the blush creeping up Amelia’s neck. I bet Bradley’s been very hands-on with those life things. The dining table is set like something out of a Mediterranean food magazine: roasted vegetables glistening with olive oil, bowls of tabbouleh and couscous, creamy tzatziki, and a loaf of crusty bread sliced into perfect chunks.

But I barely spare them a glance. My eyes zero in on the mountain of meat. Tomahawk steaks and chicken wings, glistening and charred to perfection.

A growl escapes my stomach, loud enough for Harrison to smirk at me.

“You’re lucky you can eat again.” Isla’s perched near the sink, sipping what looks like sparkling water. “First trimester’s a bitch.”

I shrug. “Still bloated as hell. Haven’t had a flat stomach since I peed on that stupid stick.”

“Least you’re glowing,” Amelia chimes in, stacking plates. “That pregnancy glow is real.”

I snort. “Glow? It’s just sweat, babe. I’m a human furnace.”

Amelia’s been so invested in this pregnancy, and I honestly love it. She’s one of those people who gets excited about the smallest things, but it’s not annoying—it’s comforting. She’s genuinely thrilled for us, and it’s like her joy has become a little bubble of positivity that’s impossible to ignore. The night Harrison and I finally told everyone about the pregnancy, Amelia’s reaction was priceless. I mean, everyone’s was. It felt good, in a way, to have that weight lifted, even if I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it yet.

Harrison, who is hovering by the BBQ like he’s been glued to my side lately, laughs under his breath at my joke. Ever since that ultrasound, he’s been trying. Texting me articles. Asking questions. Googling.

When I finally plate up, it’s mostly meat, with a token sprinkle of greens for good measure. Harrison watches me, brows furrowed. “I don’t think you can eat pink steaks, Immy,” he says, his tone full of false authority.

My fork hovers mid-air. “Says who?”

“The internet. I read that pregnant women can’t have undercooked steak. Needs to be well-done.”

“Oh, that’s true, actually,” Isla confirms.

From across the room, Bradley curses. “Shit. I didn’t even think, Imogen. I’ve got another steak—give me two minutes, I’ll fix it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, waving him off. “I’ll eat the rest of this mountain of veggies. It’s fine.”

“No. You’re getting your steak.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

I mutter under my breath, stabbing at a piece of chicken instead. “What’s in the air around here? Too much testosterone?”

Harrison chuckles. “I’ve been reading all kinds of stuff about this stage.”

“Oh yeah? What else did the mighty internet teach you?”

For a split second, something tugs at me. He’s actually gone out of his way to research this stuff. Bloody hell, I haven’t even bothered to do that, too busy trying to manage my own mess. It’s the smallest thing, really, but damn if it doesn’t hit me like a sucker punch. It’s almost… sweet? Or maybe just pathetic that he’s the one putting in more effort than I am. The sadness catches me off guard—sad in a good way, though. Or bad. Fucking hell.

“That you’re gonna be extra emotional. Maybe a bit… hornier, too.” My fork freezes. Oh, get fucked, as if he already knew what I was thinking. His grin is so damn wicked I want to slap him.

“You’re impossible!”

“Accurate, though.” He leans in a little closer, his voice dropping low. “Bet you’d rather have me than that steak.”

It takes everything in me not to launch my plate at his smug face. “Keep talking, Harrison, and I swear you’ll be wearing this food soon.”

His grin only widens. “Sure thing, Mumma.” I can’t, for the life of me, stop the way my cheeks heat. I hate it. Every. Second. Of. It.

Bradley walks back over, holding my steak. It’s perfectly seared, not a trace of pink. He sets it down in front of me with a proud grin. “Gotta learn somehow, right?”

My stomach does a flip. Goddamn emotions. “That’s… that was really nice of you. Thank you, Bradley.”

“Told you. Emotional.” Harrison’s smirk widens as he chews on a toothpick.

I glare. “Oh, fuck you.”

“You already did, sugar.” Well, that’s true. For fuck’s sake. Even the voice in my head is agreeing with him now.