Page 11 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)

Chapter eleven

MAYA

But then my phone buzzes with a text from Jake.

We’re stealing you for drinks. No excuses. Wear something cute.

I stare at the screen for a long moment. I almost say no. God, I want to say no. I want a shower, stretchy pants, and to lose consciousness in front of a rewatch of The Great British Bake-Off .

But something about that message catches me. Maybe it’s the “we” or the “no excuses,” like they already knew I’d hesitate. Like I’m not just invited—I’m expected. Like I belong.

So I go.

They take me to a rooftop bar tucked above a little independent bookstore, hidden behind a wrought-iron gate and up three narrow flights of stairs. It’s one of those places you only know about if you’ve lived in the city long enough—cozy, unpolished, and inexplicably magical.

The sun’s setting, the sky dripping in lavender and gold, the kind of color that makes you believe in soft endings and new beginnings.

String lights stretch between exposed beams. The tables are mismatched, the chairs look like they were stolen from a dozen different patios, and the bartender wears suspenders unironically.

The music drifting from the speakers is slow and jazzy—Ella Fitzgerald, maybe—and it wraps around everything like silk. There’s laughter, the clink of ice in glasses, the murmur of other conversations. No pressure. No expectations.

For the first time in days, I can breathe.

I drift toward the edge of the rooftop, pulled to the view like it’s magnetic. The city stretches out below me, a hub of activity even at this time of day, but up here it feels quiet. Still.

“Thought you might need this.”

I glance over, and there’s Liam with two bourbons in hand. I take a glass and give him a grateful smile.

“You thought right,” I say.

We lean against the railing together. Our arms don’t quite touch, but the space between us feels charged—like a live wire humming just beneath the surface.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low, steady—the kind of steady you lean on without realizing.

I exhale slowly. “No,” I admit. “But I’m trying.”

He nods. No probing. No platitudes. Just quiet understanding. It’s disarming.

“It’s a lot,” I continue. “Trying to make everything perfect. For Danielle. For her parents. For people who don’t even notice if the candles are ivory or cream.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” he says simply. “But you don’t have to carry it all alone.”

I glance at him, and he’s already looking at me. Not in a way that makes me feel exposed, but like he sees the parts I usually keep hidden and doesn’t flinch. His gaze is calm. Solid. Like a dock in a storm.

“I’m used to carrying things,” I say quietly. “Expectations. Guilt. Pressure. It’s sort of my thing.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he shifts slightly, his hand rising to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brush my cheek, slow and featherlight, and for a moment I forget how to breathe.

“You don’t have to carry everything on your own,” he says, the words firm. “Not when I’m here.”

Not a question. Not a plea. Just a simple fact.

I lean into him enough to feel the shape of his shoulder against mine. Just enough to let myself feel… not alone.

The scent of him—soap, leather, something faintly smoky—wraps around me, calming and dizzying all at once. I want to stay here. Let myself lean into him a little more.

It lasts a second. Maybe two.

Then I remember where we are, what this is, how easily a moment like this could tip into something more. I pull back, careful not to make it abrupt, careful not to break whatever delicate thread is stretching between us.

Because if I lean into this—into him—it won’t be just a moment. It’ll be a shift. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.

But something’s changed. The air feels different now. Electric. Alive.

He clears his throat softly. “You know, you don’t always have to be the fixer. Sometimes it’s okay to let people fix things for you.”

I smirk. “You’re awfully generous with advice tonight.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I want to be one of those people.”

I meet his eyes, a flicker of something raw passing between us. “Maybe I’m tired of fixing everything on my own.”

He smiles—a slow, genuine curve of his lips that makes my chest tighten. “Good, because I’m not going anywhere.”

Neither of us says anything else, but the silence between us hums with promise. The city lights blink below like stars caught in the earth, and somehow, everything feels like it might be okay.

***

Later, I find myself drifting toward the jukebox inside the bar, the hum of conversations and clinking glasses fading into the background. Ethan is already there, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp.

When he sees me approach, he raises an eyebrow.

“Pick a song,” he says, almost teasing.

I pause, glancing at him. “Why?” I ask, arching a brow in return.

“Because you need to stop thinking for five minutes. Music helps.” He shrugs.

I roll my eyes but there’s no real fight left in me. He’s right—I’ve been running through the chaos in my head all day, and maybe a song could be a brief escape. I flip through the options, my finger pausing when I find one that hits right in the center of my chest.

I press play.

The opening notes fill the space, warm and rich, wrapping around us like a soft blanket. Ethan’s mouth quirks into a small, surprised smile.

“That’s a good one,” he says quietly.

I glance over at him, feeling the faint brush of our arms as we stand side by side. Neither of us moves away. His arm brushes mine again, and even that light contact sends a ripple down my spine. He’s solid heat beside me—quiet, intense, impossible to ignore.

The room seems to slow down around us, the noisy chatter retreating to a distant hum. I catch something in Ethan’s eyes—something sharp and vulnerable. It hits me harder than it should.

I swallow hard, heart pounding louder than the music, and look away before I do something reckless—before I say something I can’t take back.

“Thanks,” I say softly, voice almost lost in the melody.

He meets my eyes again, a flicker of something unspoken passing between us.

“You don’t have to say more than that,” he replies, his tone gentle but firm.

But he’s still watching me. Like he’s waiting for something I’m not ready to give—and won’t ask for out loud.

I nod, grateful for the silence that lets the music speak instead.

***

The night’s cooled by the time Jake finds me near the fire pit.

It’s tucked away in the far corner of the rooftop, a flickering little oasis of warmth against the crisp air.

The flames dance softly, creating shadows that ripple across the stone floor.

I’m curled up in the corner of the cushioned bench, nursing the last of my bourbon, when he drops down beside me with that grin.

“Hey there,” he says, eyes glinting in the firelight. “Finally get a moment alone with you. Score!”

I snort, turning to give him a sideways look. “Oh? You going to swoop in and sweep me off my feet now?”

He laughs, that low, easy sound that always makes my chest loosen a little. “Why not? I’m charming as hell and you know it. Plus, I have a PhD in sarcasm. Very sexy.”

That makes me laugh—a real laugh, deep and raw, the kind that shakes loose the heaviness and aches from days of pretending.

“Seriously,” he grins, “You should see your face right now. It’s the most at ease I’ve seen you in days.”

I shove him playfully. “You haven’t been looking at me that much to know that.”

He leans back, stretching out comfortably next to me. “I absolutely have. It’s research. I’m learning about you.”

I glance at him, feeling the warmth of the fire and the unexpected comfort of his presence. Then, without warning, he leans in.

His grin fades, just a little, and there’s something else behind his eyes now—something real and hungry. His hand comes up slowly, like he’s giving me time to move, to stop this.

But I don’t.

His thumb brushes below my ear, sending a sharp pulse of heat down my spine. My breath catches. I can feel the shift before it happens—the pause, the possibility, the pull.

His lips find mine, and the kiss is slow. Warmth spreads through me, and I melt into it before my brain can catch up.

When it ends, the silence that falls between us feels both too long and unbearably short.

I want more. God help me, even as his lips pull away, I want more. The warmth, the pull…the feel of his hands on me.

The guilt hits immediately, sharp and cold.

Because I think of Ethan. Of Liam. Of the way each of them sees me, knows me, wants me.

I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t want this.

But now… I’m in it. Too deep.

We linger there a moment longer before the others call us back. When we rejoin them, I settle back into my seat, trying to act like my heart isn’t cracking open in a dozen directions.

I catch their gazes as I slip back into the circle—Liam, steady and protective. Ethan, cool on the surface but burning beneath, watching me with that unreadable intensity. Jake, confident, but his eyes are fixed on me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, exactly what I’m feeling.

Even if I don’t know exactly what I’m feeling, I know this: Something’s shifting. I came here tonight for escape, not clarity. But now? I feel raw. Unsteady. Seen in too many ways at once.

And I don’t know who I am when I’m not the one in control.