Page 79 of Tangled Desires

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. Withthatlook. 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 inthe 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 hitContactand save the number.

27

27 weeks

It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m halfway into emptying the fridge, mumbling to myself about how we’re out of everything that matters.

Harrison’s back to his usual self, thank God. I mean, “usual” as in sneaking into my bed nearly every night because apparently mine iscomfier. Not that I’m complaining, given the late-night—or early-morning—sex that comes with him deciding my bed is the place to be. I swear, the man has enough energy to power a small city. With him back to his hyperactive self, I’m finding myself—I hate to say this—enjoying it a bit more.

There’s something about him that just feels so natural, easy even. But at the same time, there’s this restless little thrill everytime he walks into a room, like my stomach’s got its own ideas. I’m catching myself looking forward to him coming home, more and more, knowing we’ll slip into our little routine—dinner, some ridiculous car show, or a movie—usually my pick, since he’s hopelessly indecisive and leaves it to me to make the call. It’scomfortable.

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