Page 33 of Tangled Desires

“That is true,” I say with a smile as I hug her back, giving her a half-hearted pat, fully aware I’ve been played—again. Then the smell hits. Vomit. Baby powder. And... something unholy lurking beneath it all.

“God, Isla. You reek.”

She pulls back, laughing like I’m the funniest person alive. “Eh, Xavier says it’s part of the charm.” I gag, waving her toward the door.

“Charm my ass. Get out before I hurl on your shoes.”

“Bye! Love you!” she sings-songs, strutting out.

The sharp bite of freshly sliced onion stings my eyes, but it’s the smell of barbequed meat drifting in from outside that hits hardest. Dad’s humming filters through the open window, an off-key medley he’s been singing for years. The doorbell rings, cutting through the evening like an unwelcome reminder. Dad’s been itching to set this up for a while now, and I’m just... playing along. What choice do I have?

I sigh, wiping my hands on my apron, and call out, “I’ll get it!” Dad doesn’t respond, too busy fiddling with the barbeque. I swallow hard and smooth down my hair out of habit, halfway to the door before pausing.What the hell am I doing?

The door swings open, and thereheis—Harrison. Leaning against the doorframe like he’s posing for a bloody calendar. In his hand, a bouquet of flowers. Flowers. Baby’s breath, eucalyptus, something white and fancy, and—hydrangeas.Blueones. Of all the fucking flowers in the world. Hydrangeas grow wild in my front and backyard, ignored by everyone. No one ever thinks to put them in a bouquet.

Except him, apparently. I want to throw them back at him, but for some reason, I can’t tear my eyes off them.He holds them out with a cocky grin, casual as ever. “Hey.”

A snort escapes me. “Flowers? What are you, eighty?”

“What, I can’t be thoughtful?” His grin widens. “Figured I shouldn’t show up empty-handed. It’s a thank you—for the invite to dinner.”

I narrow my eyes, half-smirking. “And you thought of flowers?”

He laughs, the sound deep and easy, and it slides right through me, settling somewhere low in my stomach. “What did you have me pegged for? I do have manners, Immy.”

I cross my arms. “Jury’s still out on that.”

“Well, only where it counts.” He winks. Damn him. He’s right. I’ve seen enough of him to know exactly what he means. The guy’s a savage, and I really don’t need to be thinking about that right now.

I grab the bouquet, inspecting it with feigned indifference. “Well, you nailed it. Blue flowers to match my sparkling personality.” He shrugs, completely at ease.

“Yeah, I, uh, I don’t know much about flowers.”

“Then why blue?”

“Because they reminded me of your eyes.”

He says it so easily, like he didn’t just kick my heart into overdrive. It’s pathetic, really. But it’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in ages, and I hate him for it. I don’t want to like him. I don’t want to care. He’s—well, technically we both have—made this whole situation a bloody mess, and I’m not about to let him make me soft, too. I grit my teeth. “You’re making this really difficult, you know?”

“Making what difficult?” He feigns innocence.

I glare at him, but his grin only widens. My grip tightens on the bouquet. Don’t swoon. Do not swoon. “Come on, dinner’s almost ready,” I mutter, turning away before I do something stupid—like smile back.

As he passes, his scent wraps around me, sticking to the air like a bad decision. God help me, the man always smells ridiculously good. And fuck me, his outfit doesn’t help. That Henley top is too fucking tight in all the right places, and those loose jeans? Not doing my sanity any favours. At least the hat’s forward. Backward? I’d combust on the spot.

Dinner is its usual circus of Dad’s overly invested grilling—of both the meat and Harrison.

“So, still working over at Joe’s shop?” Dad asks, tossing back the rest of his beer and settling into his chair. His tone is casual, but I know him well enough to hear the underlying weight. He knows Joe. Hell, everyone in town knows Joe.

“Yeah,” Harrison replies, picking at his napkin, his knee bouncing under the table. “Been there for a while now.” They banter about utes and repairs, Dad puffing out his chest every time Harrison compliments his “old girl.” But the second the topic shifts to where Harrison’s living, the mood cools.

Dad pauses, takes a slow sip of his beer. “So, you still living at home?”

Harrison nods, glancing at me briefly. “Yeah. But in my own space. It’s separate from the house.” His knee bounces under the table, a restless rhythm that doesn’t go unnoticed. He’s holding something back—again.

Dad hums, setting the beer down. “Not a bad setup. Guess it keeps things simple.”

Harrison shrugs. “Practical for now.”

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