Page 5 of Tangled Desires

“That’ll do it,” I mutter, cocking a brow at the mirror before heading out.

No bloke is ever going to rattle me enough to stop me from going out and having a good time. Harrison’s stupidly charming grin flashes through my mind—his tattoos that climb up his arms, those muscles flexing when he works. A weird flutter kicks low in my stomach.

Butterflies? Surely not.

He teases, calls me ‘Immy’, like it’s his God-given right, and somehow gets under my skin every damn time. Isla might have a point—maybe I do let him—but it’s not on purpose. Around him, it’s like my brain short-circuits.

Handbag tucked under my arm, I walk downstairs to the lounge where Dad’s out cold on the couch, two empty beer bottles on the table. His snoring fills the room, his face lined with exhaustion. Landscaping jobs have been piling up since Mum left, and he works himself to the bone to keep us afloat. I’ve been doing my part too, taking on every client I can at the salon to help. Just the two of us, holding it together. Leaning down, I press a quick kiss to his head before slipping out the door, pulling it shut softly behind me.

The taxi drops me off right outside The Loose Lasso. Texting Jesse,I’m here, I tuck my phone back into my bag and step inside. The place is buzzing—loud as hell and packed with familiar faces and a few I don’t recognise. Jesse’s reply pings back.Outside, at the back.Behind the bar.

I spot him straight away. He’s grinning as I walk up, all sandy blonde hair and stubble, chiselled jawline—that tall, Liam Hemsworth vibe going on. Cute, yeah, I’ll give him that. But he’s notHarrisonattractive. Oh, go away.

But it’s true.Where Harrison is all rough edges, zero filter, and muscles that should come with a warning label, Jesse’s softer, more polished. Definitely the type who books eyebrowappointments and trims every inch of body hair. Probably moisturises, too.

He greets me with a smile and a kiss on the cheek. “Imogen. It’s good to see you.”

“You, too. It’s been a minute,” I reply, shifting my bag on my shoulder.

“Yeah, it has. Sorry for the formal get-up,” he says, gesturing at his shirt and tie. “I only wrapped up work an hour ago.”

I glance around, taking in the fairy lights strung under the shelter, giving the space a soft glow. The large fans in the corners hum quietly, pushing hot air around—not exactly refreshing, but better than nothing. “No worries. You clean up alright,” I say with a smirk.

He chuckles, stepping aside to let someone pass. “Shit, it’s packed tonight.”

I nod. “Yeah, it’s always like this. Every time I’ve been here, anyway.”

He leans closer to be heard over the chatter. “Makes sense. Good drinks, good vibe.”

“Can’t argue with that,” I say, scanning for a free table. “Now let’s find somewhere we’re not standing in the way.”

We find a spot toward the side, where tall bar tables and stools are tucked just out of the way. It’s quieter here, or at least as quiet as it gets in a packed pub. His mum was mates with mine, back when Mum still played ‘being a parent.’ That’s how Jesse and I met in high school, before Mum skipped town and left her other kids—Cameron and Tommy, my half-brothers, technically—in the dust. The whole thing’s a bloody mess, but Jesse? He’s always been easy to talk to. As we settle in, he starts chatting about real estate, his face lighting up as he talks about helping people find their dream homes.

“It’s honestly the best feeling,” he says, leaning on the table. “Seeing their faces when everything falls into place—it makes all the headaches worth it.”

“Sounds like you’ve found your thing.”

“Yeah, I think I have,” he says, grinning. “So, what are you doing these days? Are you still a hairdresser?”

“Of course! What else would I be doing?” I huff a laugh, and Jessie shrugs.

Madeleine—my partner—went to our high school. She already owned the salon but put out feelers about five years ago for someone to help her out. She was pregnant and needed to lighten the load. I jumped on it, and now, three kids later, we’ve turned the place into something pretty damn amazing. Honestly, I love working with her. She’s a total powerhouse.

Jessie laughs. “No surprise there. You always did have great hair back then. Still do.”

“Yeah, well, might as well use my talents somewhere,” I quip, flicking my hair over my shoulder for dramatic effect.

He leans in just slightly. “You look stunning, by the way.”

“Thanks,” I reply, keeping my voice steady while mentally fighting off the blush creeping up my neck. Stay cool, Imogen.

“Drink?”

“Wine. Red. Please.”

“Done,” he says before disappearing back inside.

The air out the back of the pub clings like a second skin—stuffy, thick, January heat still going strong. Perfect weather for sun and bikinis, not for slapping on makeup just to watch it melt off my face. Sweat and foundation make one hell of a gross cocktail, and here I am, stuck in it. Lovely. Waiting for Jesse to come back, I thumb through Instagram, the screen’s glow bouncing off my face. Then it hits—the voice. Deep, rough, smug as hell.

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