Tangled Desires (Wattle Creek #3)

26

“ O kay, weirdest food combo—go!” Amelia leans forward with a grin.

Xavier raises an eyebrow. “Vegemite and avocado toast. Isla and I love it. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

Michael snorts. “Mate, that sounds gross. Peanut butter and bacon, that’s where it’s at.”

I’m sprawled on the couch at Isla and Xavier’s, pretending to watch footy highlights but really just zoning out. Olivia’s got Callie bouncing on her lap, her little squeals filling the room. The others are deep in conversation, voices rising and falling around me.

Imogen smirks. “Hot chips dipped in a chocolate milkshake? Now that’s a solid combo.” Her voice hooks me back into the room, and I watch her, a smile spreading across my face.

Bradley’s face twists. “Why would you do that?”

“Pregnancy cravings, Brad.” Imogen says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Plus, Harrison tried it, too, and he loved it,” she adds, nodding in my direction,

“It’s true, mate.” I grin. “I’ve tried all kinds of weird stuff lately—nothing phases me anymore.” Everyone’s cracking up, the kind of loud, easy laughter that fills the whole room. For a second, I let it pull me back in. Feels good, being here with all of them. Nice, even. Especially after the week I’ve had.

I haven’t seen Mum since that dinner. She’s dodging me—I’m sure of it. And, honestly? Fine by me. Not like that’s been the thing messing with my head. Nah, that award goes to the missed calls. Him. Twice this week. Just seeing his name pop up wrecks me for days. With Imogen around, I’ve been doing everything I can to keep it together. I’d answered the first call. Dumb fucking move. Turns out, he got my number by sweet-talking some bloke at the pub—a customer from the shop, of all people. First thing I did after? Changed my number. There is no way I’m dealing with that again.

“Oi, Harrison. You good for Monday?” Xavier snaps me out of it.

“What?” I blink at him, completely lost.

Xavier’s staring at me, arms crossed. “I texted you. About bringing in my ute. Needs a service. Don’t you check your phone?”

“Uh, yeah, about that…” I scratch the back of my neck, avoiding their eyes. “Changed my number. Sorry.”

Michael and Xavier blink at me, both frowning. “What? When?”

“The other day. Too many scam calls.” The lie slides out easily as I pull out my phone. “I’ll text you my new one.” A few taps, and it’s done. Feels like everyone’s eyes are glued to me, so I barrel forward. “Good for Monday, by the way.”

Xavier nods, but tosses a look at Michael. “Speaking of next week, what’s happening?”

“What’s next week?” Amelia asks.

“Michael’s birthday,” Bradley says.

Olivia lights up. “Oh, amazing! Let’s celebrate!”

“No fucking way,” Michael grunts. “Can’t be bothered going out.”

Imogen arches a brow, stepping in before anyone else can. “Why don’t we have a BBQ? Just us.” She glances at me. “Harrison’s place has a decent patio.”

“Yeah, works for me,” I say, shrugging. The way she says it—it’s her place, too, now. Not just mine.

“Alright, whatever. I’m down.” Michael shrugs.

Xavier jumps in. “Cool, Brad and I’ll sort the meat.”

“I’ll do roast veggies,” Isla adds.

“Oooh, I’ll bring dessert!” Amelia grins.

Michael groans, shaking his head. “Guys, just order food. No need for all this.”

Isla slaps his arm. “Too bad. Home-cooked is better.”

The planning spirals, everyone calling dibs on dishes. Olivia throws her hands up, laughing. “I’ll just bring the booze, since I can’t cook for shit!” Laughter spills around the room, but Imogen’s watching me. With that look. The one that sees through everything.

She mouths, You okay?

I wink back. Yeah. Hopefully, it lands.

It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m sprawled out on the couch, beer in hand, watching Imogen and Michael duke it out in the kitchen. She’s waving a cookbook around, flipping through pages frantically. Michael’s ignoring her, of course.

“Michael, it says to baste the roast every half hour. That means regularly. Not ‘whenever you feel like it.’”

He snorts, poking at the roast with a fork. “I’m not a slave to some cookbook, Imogen. Meat has instincts. You gotta feel it out.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah? And what exactly does the meat say, then? ‘Leave me dry and flavorless’?” I push off the couch and head their way, sliding up next to them. After the lasagna shitshow, I’m not touching anything anytime soon. Imogen’s got this whole cooking thing down, anyway.

“Careful, Michael,” I chime in. “She’s about to Gordon Ramsay your ass.” I step closer and lean down near her ear. “You’re sexy as hell when you’re in charge.”

Imogen spins around, swatting me with the edge of the cookbook. “Go sit down, Harrison.”

“Make me.” I smirk, leaning in until there’s barely an inch between us. “You can’t hide that blush from me, sugar.”

“No, I’m not. Shut up.”

“Oh, you so are.” I glance over at Michael, who’s grinning like an idiot, nodding while mouthing, She is. He even throws in a wink for good measure. That little confirmation? Yeah, it makes my damn day.

Out of nowhere, I blurt, “Should we get a dog?”

Imogen pauses, staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. “What for?”

“I don’t know. Just... so we’ve got a little thing running around, you know?”

Michael doesn’t even look up from the roast. “You will soon. Relax, champ.”

“No, like, for now,” I pout, half-serious.

Imogen rips off a sheet of baking paper, rolling her eyes. “No, Harrison. A baby is enough.”

“Yes, Mumma.” I wink, and she groans, but I’ve already made up my mind. Oh, I’m getting a dog. I’ll surprise her one day, and she’s gonna love it. I always wanted one growing up. Now? I’m an adult. I can do whatever I damn well please.

They’re back at it again, arguing over something ridiculous about the roast. Michael grumbles, “Overbearing chefs,” and I laugh. It’s good, this. Feels... steady.

I grab my phone and open Safari. I’m thrown for a second, because staring at me is— Catrina Lowes - Clinical Psychologist. Shit. I forgot I searched her up. Didn’t even mean to, really. She’s not local—over in Clifftop Haven, near Imogen’s clinic. Convenient. Too convenient?

I take a long swig of beer, letting it sit bitter on my tongue. I can’t keep dodging this. The weight of it presses down harder every day, and if I don’t deal with it now, it’s gonna rip through me later. I’m not letting Imogen—or our kid—picking up the pieces later.

What was I gonna look up? Shit. Blank. Completely blank. And this therapist’s portrait’s just there, staring me down like she knows everything. Feels like she’s looking straight into the chaos I’ve buried.

Before I can overthink it, I hit Contact and save the number.