Page 77 of Tangled Desires

My mouth twitches. “What’s it look like? I’m a housewife now, taking applications. You in?”

She smirks, glancing at the table; at my piss poor attempt at a garden salad, but right in the middle is the lasagna. Hot, cheesy, and—fuck—I’m actually proud of it. “Is that…?”

“Yup,” I nod, feeling smug as hell. “Lasagna, baby.”

“But why?”

“Because I wanted to.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You said it was disgusting.”

“Yeah, I changed my mind. Expanding my horizons. You know. Gotta try new things.”

Imogen watches me, like she’s trying to make sense of all this. I walk over, pull her bag off her shoulder, and toss it aside. “Sit. Eat. It’s hot.”

She doesn’t argue. Just sits, still stunned, her eyes flicking from me to the food.We plate up. I’m just about to take a bite when something hits me. “Wait! Don’t eat yet!” I dart across the room, outside to grab the vase of blue flowers sitting on the table.

I bring it back, setting it down in front of her. Her jaw drops. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Nope.” I wink. “I plucked them for you.”

She raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “From?”

“Your garden at home?”

Her jaw drops. “You went to my house?”

“Well, yeah.” I shrug. “Where else am I gonna get a huge bunch of... uh... hydras?”

She laughs. Like full-blown, throw-your-head-back, laugh-out-loud laughter. It’s the best sound I’ve ever fucking heard. It’s music to my ears. “You mean hydrangeas?” she chokes out.

“Yeah, yeah,” I roll my eyes. “Same shit.” I sit down, a little nervous now. “I let your dad know I was coming when I rang to get the recipe.”

Her eyes widen. “My dad gave you his recipe?”

“Yeah. Why?”

She goes quiet, like I’ve just dropped a bomb or something. I’m watching her, and I swear, I have no idea what the hell is going through her head. Did I do something wrong? I’m about to ask what’s wrong when her eyes soften. They’re almost shimmering in the light above us. She’sreallylooking at me now.

“That... that was really thoughtful of you, Harrison.”

“Well, you had a long day, and I wanted to do something... thoughtful.” I say it like it’s no big deal, because yeah, that’s whatit was.Thoughtful. All I can think about is making her happy—and little bean.

We dig in. First bite—shit, I can already tell something’s off. My face scrunches up. What the hell? That’s way too sweet. Holy fuck. My eyes dart to Imogen. Nothing. No reaction. Am I hallucinating?

She frowns, then smirks. “What exactly did you put in this?”

“Uh, everything your dad told me?” I try, but this isn’t right. “I thought I put too much salt, but why the hell does it taste like that?” I watch her chew, slow, like she’s trying to decide whether to puke or not.

She wipes her mouth, then… casually spits it out. “Harrison,” she says, still smirking. “That does not taste salty.”

I point to the kitchen island, where my mess of ingredients sits. “Used that jar. Of salt. Sprinkled too much.” Her eyes go wide, then she smacks her head.

“Oh my god! That’s not fucking salt. That’s sugar, you idiot.” I watch her crack up again, and damn, I could live off this sound. It’s pure, unfiltered, and I fucking love it.

“All the jars look the fucking same.” My whole face burns with embarrassment. “Fucking hell. The one time I try to do something nice.” I throw my hands up. “Never cooking again.” I am definitely not proud of my attempts anymore.

She gets up, moving to sit on my lap. I push the chair back, let her. Her fingers run through my hair—yeah, I know she secretly loves that. She always got her hands tangled in it when we’re fucking. This dinner’s a disaster, but fuck it. What do we eat now?

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