Tangled Desires (Wattle Creek #3)

16

weeks

Love Story - Taylor Swift NIGHTS LIKE THIS - The Kid Laroi

I stand in front of my wardrobe, flinging dress after dress onto my bed in a fit of exasperation.

“Argghhh!” I huff out in frustration. I’m sixteen weeks along, and my doctor says I have a retroverted uterus, which means I might carry more toward the back. I should be proud of that, right? Yet here I am, drowning in a sea of clothes that refuse to accommodate my changing shape. The sequin dress I love? It won’t zip up on the sides, pinching me uncomfortably. My jeans won’t even button up! Not my dresses, not my jeans—nothing! And don’t even get me started on this itchy rash that’s developed on my fingers. Dermatitis, my doctor says, a lovely gift from my hormones doing their dance.

Just perfect. I’m a mess, and this is just the beginning.

My hair is half tied up with my favourite white ribbon, the curls cascading around my shoulders like a bouncy cloud. I have a whole collection of ribbons in vibrant colours, each one a nod to the mornings my dad would tie my hair back when I was little. It’s a bittersweet reminder of how he raised me single-handedly after my mother walked out. I’ve kept my makeup simple but fresh—a touch of tinted moisturiser, a hint of blush, and a swipe of mascara to bring my eyes to life. Tears threaten at the corners of my eyes as I stare at my reflection, biting my lip to keep them at bay.

“No, don’t you dare,” I mutter, leaning in closer to the mirror. “I did not spend thirty minutes on this makeup for it to be ruined by a meltdown.”

I take a deep breath, fingers hovering over my phone to text Isla, but the screen lights up with her name. I swipe to answer, my voice tight. “Isla, you won’t believe this. I have nothing to wear!”

Her voice cuts through the tension, calm and steady. “Breathe, Midge. You’ve got this.”

“No, I don’t have this! I’m about to have a mental breakdown over a karaoke bar! Why did we even agree to go?” I flop back onto my bed, throwing my phone onto the blankets in frustration.

“Because it’ll be fun! Just throw on something cute and own it! You know you look good!” Isla tries to reason.

I sigh heavily, rolling my eyes. “Yeah, right. Easy for you to say. You’re not staring at a pile of clothes that hate you.”

Isla laughs. “Oh, please. I’ve been there—story of my life, even before Callie. Now, stop whining and get dressed. You’re going out, and that’s final.”

“Fine! But if this night’s a disaster, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“Deal. Now, what about that black top you love?” Her suggestion carries that tone of authority she always has when she’s right. My eyes dart to the chair where the top hangs, mocking me.

“Yeah, the one I wear with jeans—if I could squeeze into them!”

“What about one of those bubble skirts? The stretchy ones?” Isla’s voice is smug, like she already knows the answer. “You could wear it low on your hips. You’ve rocked a midriff before.”

I hesitate, biting my lip. She’s got a point. “Maybe.”

“There you go. It’ll work, trust me!” I let out a reluctant laugh, shaking my head.

“Alright, fine.”

“Yay! You’ll look hot, regardless!”

The karaoke bar hums with life, neon lights rippling pink and purple against the walls. The glow reflects off shiny tabletops, while old-school pop posters crowd every inch of the space.

Streamers droop lazily from the ceiling, caught in the overhead fans, shimmering like trapped confetti. Laughter rises above the thrum of chatter, mingling with the off-key wail of someone belting out a classic. It’s loud, with laughter and off-key singing filling the place, exactly the kind of chaos I need tonight. Harrison picked me up and by the time we reached the bar, Michael was already there, straddling his bike in the parking lot. Amelia’s perched at a table with Bradley, her fingers curling around a drink as she smiles softly. Bradley hovers close, his eyes darting around the room. Xav stands behind Isla, his arm resting snug around her waist, her focus pinned to the stage.

Olivia, meanwhile, is practically bouncing in place, her energy spilling over as she talks a mile a minute to anyone who’ll listen.

“So, who’s first?” Bradley drawls, leaning back, his eyes flicking to Amelia.

“Oh, no,” she says, laughing while giving him a light shove. “Not until you go!”

“Only if Michael joins me. We’ll be the star duo.”

Michael nearly spits out his drink. “Absolutely not, mate. You couldn’t pay me enough.”

I take it all in, scanning the bar to see if anyone I know is here. It’s Wattle Creek, so it’s a given there’ll be familiar faces. I spot Mrs. Sanders, the boutique owner from across the salon, sipping on a margarita. Not that I care who’s here, but Wattle Creek isn’t exactly overflowing with anonymity.

Isla tugs at my arm, pulling me toward the stage. “Let’s go, Midge, time to show ‘em how it’s done!”

I hold up a hand. “Not without a drink first.” Right on cue, a waiter pops up. “Coke, full sugar, lemon wedge.”

Isla adds her order, “Long Island Iced Tea.”

I arch a brow, smirking. “Starting strong, are we?”

She laughs, shrugging like it’s nothing. “Hey, I couldn’t enjoy a good drink for a while.” I bite back a grin. I’d love to say I want to join her, but honestly? I don’t even miss drinking right now. We squeeze into the booth, and my heart’s racing, more from excitement than anything else. It’s been ages since we’ve properly gone out like this. The guys crowd around a bar table nearby, voices loud as they argue over who’d be the worst singer—Michael’s losing that one, and everyone knows it.

“How’s our pregnant superstar?” Isla asks. “You know… with everything?”

“Yeah, any fun new symptoms?” Liv says, throwing a thumb toward Isla. “I used to bother her about it all the time, so be prepared.”

I let out a dramatic sigh. “Just a rash that won’t go away and hormones that make everything either hilarious or tragic. And I’ve been so insanely horny. Is that normal?”

Isla laughs so hard she snorts. “Oh, absolutely. Xav and I were animals at this stage—like, couldn’t keep our hands off each other. It was like... every five minutes, anywhere, anytime. I swear, the supermarket wasn’t even safe.”

Olivia winces, hands flying to her ears. “God, no! No visuals, thanks!” The table erupts in laughter.

“See? Totally normal, Midge,” Isla says, taking a sip of her drink. “I still can’t believe this is all happening.”

Olivia crosses her arms, grinning. “Honestly, I saw this coming. You and Harrison? Obvious.”

The rest of us whip our heads her way, and she throws up her hands. “What? C’mon, as if you all didn’t see you two getting together sooner or later.”

I roll my eyes. “We’re not ‘a thing.’ We’re…” What the hell even are we? Co-parents? Roommates with a baby on the way… with the occasional benefits? The words get stuck in my throat, awkward as hell.

Isla nudges me, grinning. “Keep telling yourself that, Midge. But don’t expect us to believe it.”

Olivia leans in, brow raised. “Yeah, no way you two are keeping it platonic. Not buying it.”

Platonic? Yeah, right. My mind betrays me, flashing to the other morning when he had me spread out, eating me like a man starved. A shiver runs through me at the memory, heat pooling low and relentless. Crossing my legs, I try—unsuccessfully—to will the ache away. Damn him.

“Yeah, we all know there’s enough tension there to light up the whole bloody bar.”

I roll my eyes, smirking. “Oh, piss off. You’re all impossible.”

The boys slide closer. Xavier drapes his arm over Isla, his thumb lazily brushing her collarbone. Bradley moves behind Amelia, sweeping her hair to the side with a tenderness that makes my stomach churn. God, they’re so disgustingly sweet I might gag.

Some poor soul butchers Roxanne over the speakers, and Liv shouts above the chaos, “Who’s coming with me next?”

“Oh, we’re all going!” Isla declares, dragging me to my feet before I can protest. I grab Amelia on the way, and the three of us stumble toward the stage, giggling like schoolgirls. The boys cheer as we pass, Harrison’s whistle cutting through the noise. And of course, I look. The man is ridiculous—white singlet, open black button-up, jeans, boots, and that stupid backward trucker cap. Criminal.

Hormones, please calm down.

The opening chords of Love Story blare out, and Isla shoves the mic into my hand, grinning like she’s won a bet. I groan but take it, and the four of us dive into the first verse. The crowd goes wild, voices joining ours as we belt out the chorus.

“Don’t be afraid, we’ll make it out of this mess…” My eyes flick to Harrison, and the words hit harder than they should. Whatever this is, it’s messy, alright. “It’s a love story, baby, just say, ‘Yes’…”

The guys cheer, their faces lit up with shit-eating grins. Olivia and Amelia are practically bouncing beside me, their movements so out of rhythm it’s hilarious. Isla belts out the lyrics, her confidence drowning out any off-key notes. For a fleeting moment, the weight of everything lifts. The song, the noise, the energy—it’s all-consuming. Frustrations? Gone.

The boys take their turn at the mic, with Michael winning the battle by a landslide, pulling Sweet Caroline out of his back pocket. Harrison tried to get them on Eminem, but everyone shot that idea down faster than a bottle of tequila at a bachelor party. I’m honestly surprised Bradley even joined, but the real shocker? Harrison can sing. Like, actually sing. My eyes stay locked on him, the sight of him under the stage lights doing his best Neil Diamond or whatever, while I sip my Coke and try not to let it show how much I’m enjoying the view.

Amelia bumps hips with me and leans in above the music. “And you say platonic. Mhm, sure.”

I frown at her, glancing sideways. “What? What do you mean?”

“Oh, I get it now,” she grins, her eyes practically twinkling. “You know, what people used to say when I’d look at Bradley? You’ve got that same look—except yours is saying you want to fuck him. ”

I stare at her, floored. Who is this, and what has she done with sweet, sweet Amelia? I smirk, nudging her back as if to say, oh, shush. But her words stick. Every look, every sway of Harrison under those lights is sending a pulse through me, and I realise I’m ready to go now.

It doesn’t help that I’ve already had to pull out my Satisfyer Pro multiple times this week, and after that awkward phone call with my midwife to confirm the vibrations were safe for the baby, I’ve practically worn it out.

When Harrison and the guys finally stumble off the stage, he slings an arm around me like he’s King of the Karaoke, grinning. “So, what’d you think? Pretty good, huh?”

I scoff. “ Pretty good? You lot were two drinks away from a full train wreck.”

He laughs, but the sound doesn’t do anything for me now. My body’s buzzing, restless, too damn needy, and I’m done with the noise. My hormones are running wild, and I’m in serious need of some relief. “Actually, I’m out. I’m ready to head home,” I mutter, hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions.

“Wait, already?” he asks, brow furrowed. “Why? You feeling sick?”

I nod, throwing him the excuse I know will work. “Yeah, just a bit off tonight.”

After a round of quick, painless goodbyes, no one even batted an eye when I said I wasn’t feeling well. Thank fuck for that. I tossed in some bullshit about needing rest and suggested heading back to Harrison’s, claiming we needed to start moving my stuff tomorrow, since it’s Friday. What I really need? To be alone. And with Dad snoring down the hall at my place, that’s not happening tonight. As soon as we step into Harrison’s, he pulls a bottle of water from the fridge and hands it to me. I down it like I’m parched, hoping it’ll cool the fire raging under my skin. Spoiler: it does jack shit.

“How you feeling?” He’s studying me intently, moving closer, his eyes narrowing. “Nothing happened at the bar, right? Did anyone bother you?” Oh, protective Harrison is something else.

“No, Harrison. Nothing happened.” I lower my voice, letting the words hang heavy. “I wasn’t actually feeling sick.” I can’t help the smirk that curls my lips as I slip off my shoes, fingers grazing the hem of my top.

“No.”

His gaze drops to my hands, then back to my face, his mouth opening slightly as he swallows hard. “S-so… what’s up? Something bother you?”

I don’t answer. I just start undressing, slow and deliberate, keeping my eyes locked on his the whole time.