Page 80 of Tangled Desires

At twenty-six weeks, my belly’s officially rounded out. I’m basically living in anything stretchy or flowy—knit dresses, maternity leggings, oversized button-ups. This month of July has definitely been our warmest yet—usually, I’d be freezing my tits off by now—so a jumper covers the bump nicely for now, giving me a bit more time before I become a walking billboard of pregnancy.

I’m halfway through grabbing the last items on my list when I hear it: “Imogen!”

Oh, for the love of God. I turn, plastering on a polite smile, only to findJesse, of all people, striding toward me. Before I can dodge, he plants an awkward kiss on my cheek. I immediately step back, putting space between us.

“Whoa. Jesus Christ. You’re pregnant?” His eyes go wide as he notices my bump. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

I hesitate, but he’s already piecing it together. His eyes widen even more. “Wait… it’s Harrison, isn’t it?” He laughs. “Man, he knocked you up? Meanwhile, I couldn’t even get a text back.”

I blink, caught off guard. “A text back? What are you talking about?”

He raises a brow, looking annoyingly smug. “I texted you after that night at the Loose Lasso. Figured you’d ghosted me.”

Did he really expect me to remember? Like I care enough to think back that far. Besides, with this pregnancy brain kicking in full swing, tracking his texts ranks somewhere below remembering to water my plants. “Didn’t get it, obviously.” I shrug, already turning to leave.

“Look, no offence, but Harrison? With his whole… history? Is that really what you want around you?” His words pull me back, but it’s his tone that pisses me the fuck off—like he’s doing me a favour.

I stop dead, giving him a slow, hard stare. “You know what, Jesse? Whatever Harrison’s ‘history’ is, it’s none of your business. At least he’s real. He doesn’t pretend to be interested in people’s lives just to puff himself up.” My voice is razor sharp, and I see his smirk falter, if only for a split second.

He raises his hands, all cocky. “Jeez, relax.”

Relax?Oh, he did not just go there. I arch a brow, folding my arms. “You know, Jesse, last time I checked, you were too busy impressing anyone with a pulse and showing off those fancy suits of yours to care about others.” I let out a low, humourless laugh. “Thanks for your concern, but it isnotneeded.” I tilt my head, my tone dripping with mockery.

The smirk slips further, but he presses on. “If that’s what you think. Shame, though. I could’ve made you happy.”

I let out a scoff. “Right, Jesse. Nothing says happiness like constant talk of thereal estatemarket and you bragging about commission. Living the dream, aren’t we?”

He laughs it off, but he looks a bit stung. “Still as feisty as ever, I see.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” I flash a quick, cutting smile. “Bye, Jesse.” Spinning on my heel, I walk away without another glance.

By the time I get home, I’m fuming, unloading bags on the counter. One hundred and fifty dollars for what feels likefivethings. Are they kidding? When did grocery shopping turn into a luxury? And who the hell does Jesse think he is, acting like he has a right to know my business just because I’m visibly pregnant? Just as I’m shoving the last overpriced vegetable into the fridge, Harrison comes in, kicking off his boots and looking like he’s about to pull me into one of his bear hugs.

“Absolutely not. You stink, and you’re covered in grease. Do not touch me,” I warn, pointing a finger at him.

He grins. “Alright, then, let’s shower together.”

I fold my arms. “No. Definite no. I don’t need to shower.”

Ignoring me, he wraps me up in a big, messy hug, smearing grease all over my shirt. “Ughh, damn you!” I cry out.

He laughs, eyes gleaming. “Oh well. Looks like webothneed a shower now, huh?”

Next thing I know, he’s dragging me into the bathroom, turning the water on and pulling me under it with him. He digs his hands into my hair, laughing, and then his mouth finds mine, and I can’t help but melt. Stubborn, infuriating, impossible man.

The bathroom door barely shuts behind us before Harrison’s hands are on me, slick and filthy from a full day in the garage. I shudder, part disgust, part thrill, as he runs them down my arms, smudging grease onto my skin.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he murmurs, his mouth ghosting over my neck.

I roll my eyes, smirking. “What’s new?”

“Nothing. It’s always you, Immy,” he says, grin wide, too confident. That bloody nickname, which I used to hate, has somehow worn me down. I stopped correcting him ages ago—what’s the point when he was never going to quit?

We stumble into the shower, peeling off clothes in a frenzy. Under the spray, he leans back, wetting himself completely,water running down his abs, tracing every ridge and tattoo, down that perfect V, and lower. I bite my lip, watching shamelessly.

“You’ve got no idea,” he says, eyes fixed on me. “I’ve been dying to taste you all day.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

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