Page 1 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)

Chapter one

MAYA

T he soft, muffled thud of the Le Marais doors closing behind me—too elegant to be a slam, but final enough to make me feel locked into something I’m not ready for—echoes in my ears.

Inside, the air is crisp and perfumed with what I assume is pure money—an understated floral scent that probably costs more than my rent. Champagne sparkles and there are white roses so flawless, they look like they have agents negotiating their lighting.

I self-consciously reach behind me, scratching my neck while secretly checking that my dress’s price tag is hidden.

I knew I was going to need something of a higher caliber than my normal wardrobe, but since I can’t actually afford this floral Prada sundress, it will be going back to the store as soon as this meeting is over.

I shouldn’t be nervous—it’s just brunch. Just eggs, mimosas, and small talk. But my fingers twitch around my phone anyway.

Buzz.

A text from my best friend Ava pops up.

Ava: Good luck! Just think about the money and show Nick what a bad bitch you’ve become!

I smile at her message, feeling a little more at ease at the prospect of taking this job.

Suddenly, a new email lights up my screen.

Subject: Welcome to the Bridal Party!From: Danielle

Oh, good! She said she’d send the actual job offer before this meeting. I’m not surprised it’s a bit late, though.

Danielle Anderson, the human Pinterest board with perfectly glossed everything and a picture-perfect smile always at the ready, isn’t exactly the most organized person I’ve ever met.

Though she has the best of intentions, she gets easily overwhelmed and has much more of a “pretend the problem isn’t there and maybe it’ll go away” approach than a proactive one.

Gazing down at my phone, I open the email to give it a quick glance as I make my way toward our table, not looking where I’m going.

And I walk straight into what I assume, for a split second, is a wall of navy linen and Tom Ford.

Except it’s not a wall.

It’s a man.

It’s Nick .

My body goes cold, then hot, like my nerves short-circuited.

My pulse slams in my ears. I can’t breathe.

Can’t move. For a second, I think I might actually throw up on my borrowed Prada.It’s him.

Same perfectly-pressed suit. Same too-white smile.

But there’s something harder about him now—his stance squared off, like he’s bracing for a punch.

Or about to throw one.The scent of his cologne hits me next—spiced cedar and clean soap—and just like that, I’m back in that hallway, our last fight ricocheting off the walls.

The things he said. The way he looked at me, like I was nothing.

Nick always knew how to dress the part—clean lines, expensive fabric, perfect posture. A walking LinkedIn profile with a six-pack. He wore suits like armor and sincerity like a costume.

He has this polite, practiced charm—the kind that makes waiters like him and makes women feel lucky when he picks them out of a room. At first.

Dark brown hair, always perfectly in place. That smile is warm enough to disarm a girl but never quite makes it to his eyes. I used to think I imagined that, but now that I don’t see him with rose-tinted glasses, it’s easier to tell when he’s checked out of a situation.

His gaze drops to me.

“Of all the people,” he grumbles.

I blink up at him, and my heart races in my chest.

“Nick,” I choke out. “Hi.”

Hi? Really?

His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, looking me up and down and scrunching up his nose like I’ve tracked in mud. Or shit.

“I could say the same,” I reply, trying for casual but landing somewhere between strained and awkward. “Didn’t know you were back in town.”

He crosses his arms, navy linen stretching slightly over his biceps. “Just visiting. Danielle invited me.”

Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she invite her beloved big brother?

The silence between us is louder than the clink of silverware and the bubbly chatter of nearby brunch-goers. I catch a server eyeing us warily, probably wondering if she should offer coffee or call security.

“So…” I fumble, pushing a strand of brown hair behind my ear, “how have you been?”

Nick laughs. Once. It’s short and sharp, not at all amused. “You really want to have that conversation here?”

I flinch. “No. I just…” I swallow. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I’m trying to be polite…”

“Would you have shown up?” His eyes pin me in place. “If you knew I was going to be here?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

He shakes his head and scoffs. “Figures. You’d flake on poor Danielle just to spite me.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I insist, irritation bubbling up within me. “Despite what you might think, my whole world does not revolve around you.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Don’t screw this up for her, got it? Do your job—if you can really call this a job.”

Asshole! He knows exactly where to hit where it hurts, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of watching me squirm.

“Excuse me,” I snap. “I don’t want to be late.”

I lift my chin, smooth the mask over my face, and walk past him like he’s nothing more than inconveniently placed furniture. I can feel him glaring after me, but I don’t look back. I won’t give his ego that satisfaction.

I weave through tables draped in ivory linens and polished to perfection. Crystal flutes sparkle under chandeliers, catching the light and shimmering like glitter. I can’t look at anyone.

My fingers curl around my phone like it’s a lifeline. The notification still flashes across the screen.

Unread Email: Welcome to the Bridal Party!

A week ago, I opened Danielle’s initial offer with a glass of grocery store merlot and every intention of deleting it. I reread it more times than I care to admit. Bridesmaid. Discretion guaranteed. $5,000 honorarium.

The words felt like a dare. Or a bribe. Or both.

I’ve been working as a “bridesmaid for hire” for a few years now, but I’ve never gotten a potential payday like this.

Not surprising, though, for an Anderson with their old money privilege and snobbery.

But Danielle’s an exception to that. She was always nice to me when I was dating Nick.

Always warm and accepting, even when the rest of her family thought he was slumming it with me.

Still, my first instinct was to turn down the job, obviously. It would be way too awkward. I’d have to see Nick, and try to tolerate his family… but then I thought it over.

And I accepted.

I need the money. Desperately. And if I’m being honest with myself, I need something to yank me out of the rut I’ve been marinating in. A change. A challenge. Something—anything—that doesn’t involve sitting alone on my couch watching reruns and eating cereal for dinner.

Even if that something meant designer tulle, passive-aggressive brunches, and navigating the minefield that is my ex-boyfriend’s uppity family and bubbly sister.

“Maya!” Danielle’s voice floats through the air, crystal-clear and perfectly pitched.

I glance up. She’s perched at the far end of the room in a soft blush dress that hugs her curves like it’s been tailored (probably has), with pearls at her throat and a smile that’s all socialite shine. Her long blonde hair falls in soft curls around her shoulders.

She’s everything I’m not—elegant, poised, untouched by awkward reality—and she looks genuinely relieved to see me, like she half-expected I wouldn’t show up. Would Nick have put that worry in her head?

I paste on a smile. Tight, but not fake. Polished enough to pass inspection.

I make my way over, and she pulls me into a hug.

“You made it,” she breathes.

“Of course,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She pulls back, her eyes scanning me. Though she can come off as a bit of the stereotypical airhead blonde, she’s actually got a rather shrewd eye for aesthetics. A good quality for a social media manager and influencer to have.

“You look amazing,” she says. “Seriously. That color on you? Perfect.”

“Thanks. It’s ‘emotionally stable merlot,’” I deadpan, gesturing to my dress. “Pairs well with bad decisions.”

Danielle laughs, takes my hand, and leads me to the table. We sit and she gazes at me for a moment before her blue eyes flash with uncertainty.

“Thank you again for agreeing to meet with me. I know it might be a little—”

“Complicated?” I finish, lifting a brow.

Her smile falters for a second. “I was going to say delicate. ”

“Don’t worry.” I try to sound as reassuring as possible. “Nick and I are ancient history. I promise, there won’t be any awkwardness between us.”

It sounds good. Crisp. Cool. Believable, even. The kind of thing you say when you’ve moved on and don’t harbor feelings of bitterness and resentment.

Danielle exhales, visibly relieved. “Good. I… didn’t want it to be weird.”

“Not weird at all,” I say brightly. And I almost believe it.

But then, over her shoulder, I see him again.

Nick.

Leaning against the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass of what I assume is bourbon. His jaw is still tight, the muscle flickering like a warning. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

He looks like he’s trying to decide whether to walk away or walk over. Like I’m not a person, but a problem he has to figure out a solution for.

And just like that, the old ache flickers to life.

The lies he told me. The way he twisted my words in that last fight. The silence that followed.

We never had a clean break—just this slow unraveling, where love turned into something sharp and mean.

Seeing him now? It’s like the bruise I thought had faded is suddenly screaming again. And I don’t know if I’m lying anymore.

I don’t feel like a woman in control.

I feel like a grenade someone handed to the wrong person. And I can feel the pin slipping loose.

This weekend is already a disaster—and it hasn’t even started.