Page 97 of Tangled Desires

She chuckles, still eyeing us like we’re a couple of kids caught holding hands behind the school sheds. “Well, you know how folks like to talk.” Imogen gives a tight smile, keeping her reply polite but firm.

“Guess they’ll have to find something else to talk about soon enough.”

With the groceries now bagged up, I scoop them up into my arms. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

I don’t miss the way her shoulders relax the second we’re outside. The last thing I want is for her to feel like the entire town is looking at us like we’re some kind of spectacle.

35

Afew days later, we’re knee-deep in setting up the nursery, putting the final touches on what’s shaping up to be a pretty cosy room. Xavier and Michael came over to help, and the place is buzzing with ideas about where to put stuff and a lot of furniture-shifting.

Xavier grabs the crib. “Nah, it’d look better by the window. Get some light on it.”

“Yeah, and every morning the sun’ll smack the baby right in the face. Great idea, mate.” I shake my head.

Michael sighs from the corner, arms crossed. “Maybe leave the crib where it’s been for the last ten minutes?” His tone is deadpan. “You two want to move the tallboy next?”

“Fine, smartass,” I mutter, grinning at him. Xavier and I keep on bickering, shifting the crib an inch one way, then two theother, like it’s going to make any real difference. He grunts, nudging the crib left again.

“Trust me, man. A little closer to the window makes it feel less cramped. Feng Shuii or some shit.”

“Oh, now you’re an expert? Babies don’t need Feng Shui—they need to not get roasted by the morning sun.” Between the two of us, we’ve got one brain that never fully agrees. Meanwhile, Michael’s just standing there, the voice of reason, letting us wrestle it out.

“Alright, enough,” Michael says. “Leave the damn crib. Let’s sort the changing table. Last thing we need is you two turning this place into a maze.”

Meanwhile, Isla and Imogen are in the lounge, folding baby clothes into neat piles. Every now and then, the smell of baby detergent hits me, and I’m reminded how close we are to having a little one in the house. I wander in as they’re folding tiny socks and onesies. I pick up a sock, holding it up. “You sure this isn’t a joke? Pretty sure only a possum could fit into this.”

“Triple-checked the tags. Baby-sized.”

“Gosh, it’s tiny,” I mutter, shaking my head.

Isla scoffs. “Yeah, you’re not gonna be saying that when it’s coming out—”

“Ay, ay. Alright. We’ll get to that when it happens.” My body shudders.

“Men,” she mutters under her breath.

Imogen giggles beside her, and Isla adds, “Trust me, they’ll outgrow it all faster than you can blink. Callie was out of newborn stuff in no time.”

“Are you sure we need this many?” I nod at the mountain of clothes on their laps.

“Better too many than not enough,” Isla says, neatly stacking another set. “Believe me, you’ll appreciate it at three a.m. when you don’t have to wash a onesie in the sink quickly. And let’sbe real, Harrison, you’re in this for the long haul.” Isla chuckles, nudging Imogen’s shoulder. “You’ll be right there at three a.m. becoming a master at late-night nappy changes—if you can handle it.”

“Oh, really?” I cross my arms. “You’re doubting me already?”

“We’ll see how tough you are after two nights without sleep, Mr. Confident,” Imogen retorts.

“Piece of cake, Immy.” I wink, trying to keep up the bravado. “You’re looking at the best teammate for this job. I was made for this.”

Imogen

My legs are on fire.

The stupid muscles in my back are about to snap in half, and yet here I am, desperately trying to blow-dry my hair like some kind of normal person. The irony doesn’t escape me—me, a hairdresser, sitting here like a useless mess, unable to even do my own damn hair. I reach behind my head, trying to grab a thick lock of wet hair, but my arms are already cramping up.

Fuck, my entire body feels like it’s shutting down. The blow dryer slips from my hand, landing softly on the bed. My breath catches in my throat. And that’s it. I’m done.

Tears. Why the hell are there tears?

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