Page 96 of Tangled Desires

“Oh, plenty,” Imogen laughs. “Little one’s going to be a boxer, I think.”

Dominic steps forward with a friendly nod toward me. “Harrison, how’s life treating you?”

“Can’t complain,” I say, shaking his hand. “Just here to keep Imogen out of trouble—though I think she’s more likely to keep me in line these days.”

Dom chuckles. “Ah, a woman’ll do that to ya. Keeps you grounded, even when you think you’ve got it all sorted.”

I grin, glancing over at Imogen, who’s already chatting animatedly with Grace about some handmade baby booties on display. “Yeah, she’s got a knack for it, that’s for sure.”

“Best thing that can happen to a man, really. Keeps us from getting too cocky, thinking we know everything.”

“Oh, am I getting the credit I deserve over there?” Imogen calls out, catching on to our conversation.

“You bet, Imogen. Just making sure your fella knows who’s really in charge.”

She smirks. “Good to know everyone’s on the same page.”

“You two ready for the big day?” Xavier says with a nudge. “Got the nursery set up?”

“Yeah, mostly.” I shrug. “We’ve got the crib, the changing table—”

“And clothes? Toys? Nappies?” Isla interjects.

“Uh—”

“Got it all covered, big boy,” Imogen smirks and pats my arm, answering before I can even finish my sentence.

I look at her, raising a brow. “Still, we’ll stop by the shops before heading home. Just in case.”

After grabbing what feels like a lifetime supply of dummies, bottles, tiny syringes, and other baby stuff I didn’t even know existed, we head over to the shops. The baby aisle is packed with endless rows of nappies, formula tins—just in case my milk supply is slow to come or doesn’t come at all—wipes, detergents—basically, a full-blown baby emporium that looks more like a chemist’s on steroids. I mean, I’m just here to make sure we’ve got the essentials, but now I’m staring at a wall of products, each with different labels and promises.

It’s like the aisles are practically laughing at me, daring me to figure out what half of this shit is.

Imogen picks up a tin of formula. “I don’t want anything too processed, or with all that extra stuff,” she mutters, mostly to herself. Right… let’s keep this simple and not chemical-ridden, got it.

“Low-tox, right?” I say, grinning as I try to act like I’ve got a clue what I’m talking about.

“Yes, low-tox. Non-toxic, Harrison. As few chemicals as possible.”

Who knew babies had these specific lifestyle preferences? If it were up to me, I’d just be grabbing whatever has the word “baby” on it. But no, Imogen’s got us on a mission, and I’m here to follow along.

“Got it. I’ll find us the purest wipes ever made,” I say, picking up a pack, flipping it over.

“Good luck with that. Make sure whatever we get is biodegradable.”

Biodegradable nappies? Fucking hell, I didn’t even know regular ones weren’t. “What’s next, the non-toxic nappy aisle?”

She tuts. “I just want to make sure little one gets a healthy start.”

We’re elbows-deep in options, debating which baby detergent won’t make our kid smell like a factory, and honestly, I’m just pretending to read the labels. All these words and symbols are floating right over my head. But I’ll fake it if it keeps Imogen happy, and hey, if it means Baby Price gets the healthiest, most chemical-free, ‘low-tox’ start, then I guess I’m game.

Finally, with our arms full of the ‘good’ stuff—so I’m told—we head to the register. Just as I’m unloading the pile, a couple of locals from Wattle Creek wander up. Familiar faces, older folks who like to make the rounds at the mechanic shop, always throwing in a, “You keeping out of trouble, Harrison?” whenever they catch me. One of the ladies, Mrs. Partridge, gives me and Imogen a quick once-over, her eyebrows hiking up in that unmistakable Wattle Creek way.

“Well, so the rumours are true, then,” she says, her voice dripping with small-town curiosity as she glances between me and Imogen. You’d think we were prime-time news.

Imogen’s shoulders go stiff, and I can feel her inch just a bit closer to me, her polite smile holding firm but tense. Doesn’t take a mind-reader to know she’s not here for the gossip column.

I clear my throat, loading up the last pack of nappies on the counter, keeping my tone casual. “To be honest, Mrs. Partridge, I don’t really have much time for rumours.”