Page 55 of Tangled Desires

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 wholedon’t-get-attachedplan. 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.”

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