Tangled Desires (Wattle Creek #3)

18

“ S orry I’m late! Traffic was a nightmare.” I walk into the salon, the familiar scent of shampoo and hairspray hitting me like a tidal wave.

Which is true, but only part of it. I mean, first, Harrison was acting all weird and distant. One minute, he’s laughing and being all flirty and the next, he’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before. I spent the whole ride home wondering if I fucked up—let my hormones take the wheel, and now I’m stuck in this mess.

He hasn’t said a word since, and here I am, obsessing over it. Am I leading him on? Could we actually get by as platonic friends? If last night was any indication, there’s no way that’s happening. Last night proved that’s a joke.

I know I’ll be needing more of that relief, and a girl can only put up with her vibrator for so long before it loses its charm. Isn’t it ironic? Just when things finally seem a little less messy, everything falls apart again.

It’s like the universe has a sick sense of humour. Second, Stella, my longest, most high-maintenance client, calls last minute to remind me I’m the only one who knows how to handle her hair and books herself in. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, my bladder goes rogue, and I almost piss myself. Oh, and Callie’s christening is next weekend and I’ve got nothing to wear. Perfect.

“Imogen?” Stella interrupts my internal chaos. “You okay?” No. No, I’m fucking not.

“Never better,” I say with a tight smile. “Just living the dream.”

Life sure knows how to throw a curveball. But hey, I’ve still got my wit—and a job that keeps me mostly grounded. Now all I need to do is survive Stella’s diva routine without completely losing my shit.

I’m heading home, finally, after a surprisingly smooth styling session. She even tried paying me extra for rushing over, and when I protested, she shoved it in my bag with a “Don’t argue.”

The drive’s quiet until my brain decides to hijack the moment, replaying this morning. Should I call him? The whole vibe was… off. Before I can second-guess myself, I tap his contact. He picks up on the first ring. “Hey.”

“Hi. Are we still moving my stuff today?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“It’s already done,” he replies.

“What? Since when?”

“Michael and I swung by earlier. Your dad helped load the ute. Figured you’d be wiped after work, so…” His voice trails off, almost shy. “Wanted to save you the stress.”

For a second, I don’t even know what to say. My dad, bless him, has been so supportive through all of this. Always helping, but there’s something else there, something unspoken, just beneath the surface, that he doesn’t bring up. What it is…? I’m not sure.

Then my car decides to join the chaos. Check engine. Of course.

“For fuck’s sake!”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“My ‘check engine’ light’s on,” I grumble, glancing at the blinking warning.

“Bring it here,” he says, no hesitation. “I’ll sort it out.”

I hang up and stare at the blinking light. The man’s practically making himself indispensable, which isn’t helping the whole don’t-get-attached plan. Last night flickers in my mind—every raw, messy second of it. Whatever’s brewing between us, I can’t let it screw up my child’s life. No fractured families or awkward handovers. This kid’s getting a steady, drama-free upbringing if it kills me. If that means keeping things cool with Harrison, then so be it.

I pull into the driveway, parking outside Harrison’s granny flat. The door swings open, and out he strides, a brown tool belt strapped to his hips. And Jesus Christ. So much for staying detached.

“Hey,” he says, flashing that infuriatingly boyish grin. He pops my hood, sleeves rolled, muscles shifting as he leans in. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

I cross my arms, trying to ignore the way he looks like a damn ad for rugged manliness. “So, what’s the verdict?”

“Coolant’s low, and this clip’s loose.” He gestures at parts I’m not even going to pretend to understand. “That’s rubbing the belt against the hose.” He moves with this casual confidence, hands deftly sorting through the mess of the engine like it’s second nature.

“How old were you when you got into this?” I ask curiously.

“Teenager. Joe had us tearing apart old engines for practice.” He glances up, smirking. “Been at it ever since.”

“Hmm,” I tease, raising an eyebrow. “And here I thought your only talent was getting on my nerves.”

“Annoying? Nah.” He grins, wiping his hands on a rag. “Admit it, you’d miss me if I stopped.”

“Please,” I deadpan, though my lips twitch against my will. The teasing lingers, but my curiosity sneaks in again. “How long have you known Joe?”

His smirk falters. “Since we were kids. Moved in with him when I was sixteen, maybe seventeen.” He shrugs, but the weight in his voice says more than the words. “He’s always been there… in one way or another.” It’s vague—too vague. Before I can press, he cuts through my thoughts.

“Hand me that spanner, please,” he says, snapping me back to the present. I pass it over, watching him tighten something with a quick twist. He’s back in his element, but the question is already burning on my tongue.

“What was Jesse on about at the pub? About your… actual father.” His shoulders tense, a subtle but sharp reaction.

“Joe is my father.” His tone’s clipped, leaving no room for argument. “Don’t listen to what others say.”

And just like that, the wall goes up.

“How much more do you have left?” I pivot, deciding not to push.

“All done,” he replies, stepping back and slamming the hood shut. “Fixed it in record time, too. Not bad, huh?” Not bad? The man just went from weird and brooding this morning to energetic and playful, like a switch flipped.

“So… are we going to talk about this morning?” I ask, my tone light, though the question lingers heavily between us. He doesn’t tense this time. Instead, his smile softens.

“What about it?”

“You tell me. One minute, you’re grinning like an idiot, and the next, you’re… somewhere else entirely.”

His gaze holds mine. “You could never do anything to piss me off.”

A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, sharp and loaded with sass. “Then I’m not trying hard enough.” Harrison’s grin widens, something darker flickering in his eyes as he closes the space between us. The air shifts, thickening, and my breath catches as he leans in, a little too close, a little too intoxicating.

“Trust me, sugar,” he murmurs, his voice a low drawl that sends a shiver down my spine. “That’s a game you won’t win.”

As we step inside, I glance at him sideways, second-guessing myself. “Are you sure you’re all good?”

“Yeah, Immy,” he says, flashing a quick wink. “Sometimes there’s just a lot going on up here.” He taps his temple with two fingers. “Nothing to stress over, though.” That wink throws me, but I bite down on the urge to dig deeper, swallowing the questions bubbling up.

“If I walk into one more shop where nothing fits, I’m going to scream,” I mutter, glaring at the boutique-packed centre of Clifftop Haven. Amelia’s been on about this place for ages—better stores, better cafes, yada yada. Naturally, I dragged her along. It’s overdue girl time and a much-needed break from Harrison.

Amelia laughs. “Same here!”

I shoot her a look. “But you’re not growing a grapefruit inside of you, forcing you up a dress size, are you?”

Her cheeks flame instantly. “Well… not yet.”

“Wait. Hold up. Are you dropping some kind of baby bomb right now?”

She waves it off with a giggle. “No, no! Not pregnant! But Brad and I, well… we’re ready, you know? Although, I’d like a ring first,” she adds, all bashful.

“That’s so sweet,” I say, smiling. “I’m sure he’ll propose soon. I mean, you two are completely inseparable. That man is so smitten.”

Amelia blushes, waving her hand. “Oh, stop.”

Her reaction makes me grin even wider. “I’m serious! It’s sickly adorable.”

As we continue walking, I place a hand on my stomach, a soothing habit I’ve picked up lately. Just as my fingers press gently against the small swell, something—or rather, someone—across the road makes me freeze. Holy shit.

My stepbrother. Cameron Ivers.

The resemblance to my mother is uncanny. I’ve only ever seen him in a photo, but there’s no mistaking it. He’s tall, built, wearing a backward cap, jeans, and boots. And now he’s looking right at me.

Amelia notices my sudden halt. “What’s wrong? Do you know him?”

Such a loaded question.

“Yes and no,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. The real question is, does he know me? How would he? There’d be no reason unless… unless my mother told him. But she probably didn’t. Probably doesn’t care to. I swallow hard as his gaze flickers to my hand on my stomach. My pulse quickens. We’re standing outside a boutique called Velvet Rose, and I can’t do this right now. Grabbing Amelia’s arm, I pull her toward the door, breaking whatever this weird, silent standoff is.

The moment we step inside, my eyes land on a ruched baby blue dress in the window, and it’s game over. All thoughts of Cameron? Gone. For now, at least. That colour is screaming my name.

Amelia catches me staring. “Try it. You have to.”

I shrug, my voice more even. “Sure. As long as it doesn’t piss me off in the fitting room, we’re good.”

Ten minutes later, the dress fits like a dream, and it’s mine. We step outside, but I hesitate, my gaze flicking around, scanning for him—or worse, my mother. My pulse quickens, but there’s nothing. Just people going about their day, oblivious to the storm inside me. As we walk, a lingerie shop catches my eye. I stop, a small grin tugging at my lips like I just struck gold.

I nudge Amelia gently. “Feel like checking it out?”

Her cheeks flush pink. “I-I’ve never bought anything like that before.”

I hum thoughtfully, tugging her hand with less urgency. “Let’s change that. Come on, Sunshine. Just a look.”

I shove a bright orange and yellow lace set at her, the floral design practically screaming her name. “This is so you,” I declare, pointing her toward the fitting room.

Amelia stares at it like it’s going to bite her. “Imogen, I can’t—”

“Try it on,” I interrupt, shoving her closer. “Brad calls you Sunshine for a reason, yeah?”

Her blush deepens as she nods, and I smirk. “Exactly. Now get in there.”

A few minutes later, she emerges, cheeks blazing and fidgeting with the straps, but holy hell, she looks incredible. The colours light her up, and the lace? Yeah, Brad’s going to combust. I grab her phone without asking.

“What are you doing?” she asks, wide-eyed.

“Relax,” I say, holding up a hand as I snap a picture and hit send.

Her jaw drops. “Imogen! What the hell did you just do?”

“Relax,” I repeat, grinning like a cat with cream. “You’ll thank me.”

Before she can snatch her phone back, it vibrates. She checks the screen, her face turning crimson as she reads the message. “Oh my God.”

I cackle. Of course, Brad didn’t disappoint. “Told you.”

“Alright, my turn,” I announce, plucking a dark blue lace set from the rack. Now this is my colour.

In the fitting room, the bra straps slide into place, and I catch my reflection. Damn. Fuller thighs, rounder hips, and—hello, new tits. I grab a handful gently because these suckers are still tender as fuck. The sales assistant wasn’t kidding; I’m rocking an E cup now. E for everything .

Amelia pokes her head through the curtain. “Do you like—” Her eyes nearly bug out. “Oh my God, Imogen, you look…”

“Different?” I quip, adjusting the lace with a grin.

“Absolutely stunning,” she says, smirking. “Blue was made for you.”

I twirl a little, testing the fit. “Not bad, huh?”

She narrows her eyes, that smirk turning devious. “You should text Harrison.”

“What?” I snort, rolling my eyes. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Just do it. Trust me.” She folds her arms, throwing my earlier words right back at me.

“Cheeky,” I mutter, laughing despite myself. Finally, I grab my phone, angling a shot that teases just enough—a hint of cleavage, a soft bite of lip, the mirror showing off the Brazilian lace at the back. Satisfied, I pull up Harrison’s thread.

Me: Hi.

Harrison: Hello? Is everything okay?

I snort, because yeah, a random “hi” is not my style.

Me: Yep.

Then, without overthinking, I hit send on the photo, toss my phone into my bag, and tug my clothes back on. A rush courses through me—hell, it’s not like he hasn’t seen me in lingerie before, but still. Chill, Imogen. The notifications start blowing up before I even make it to the counter. Amelia doubles over laughing as I finally check my phone.

Harrison: HOLY FUCK

Harrison: COME HOME

Harrison: NOW.

Harrison: Immy, girl, I’m sitting at a table full of guys having lunch, and now I can’t get up…

Harrison: I am so fucking hard.

Harrison: You BETTER be on your way home.

Home. That word lands differently. He says it like it’s casual, but it isn’t. Not really. My pulse kicks up, but there’s no time to unpack that. Amelia drops me off with a knowing smirk, and I step inside, bags in hand, ready to keep playing it cool.

Except Harrison is right there. Damp, shirtless, a towel barely clinging to his hips, water still dripping down his tattooed chest. His hair’s longer now, curling at the nape, and it’s an absolute mess—sexy as hell. Oh, and yeah, there’s no missing the blatant hard-on under that towel. I act like he’s invisible, setting my bags on the counter. “Can I help you?”

His nostrils flare. “Yes. You can help me by stripping down and getting into bed so I can fucking ravish you right now.”

I smirk, arms crossed. “Oh? That bad, huh?”

He steps closer, chest heaving. “Immy, I’ve been in agony for the last hour. This close to blue balls.” He holds up two fingers, barely an inch apart.

“So… you want me?” I ask, tilting my head, all mock innocence.

His jaw clenches hard enough to crack. “Fucking oath.”

My gaze flicks to the towel, where his cock is definitely making itself known. I bite back a grin. “Show me.”

His eyes darken as he adjusts the towel, a smirk twitching at his lips. “Really?” he murmurs, intense now. It sends a jolt through me, but I keep my cool. Stepping closer, I let a finger trail up his chest, slow and teasing.

“No, that’s not what I mean.” My voice drops, sultry. “I want you to tell me. Beg for it.”