Page 16 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)

Chapter sixteen

MAYA

T he phone is still pressed to Danielle’s ear, but she’s not saying anything. She’s just… blinking. Slowly. Like her brain short-circuited mid-sentence and now she’s buffering.

I freeze mid-movement, one hand caught in the middle of unspooling a roll of dusty rose ribbon. The box of decor at my feet feels suddenly irrelevant. A slow pit of dread settles into my stomach like a stone.

Then, finally, “What do you mean the peonies aren’t available?” Danielle squeaks, her voice jumping an octave. “But—no, that’s not—”

She pauses, lips parted as she listens, her knuckles white where they grip the phone. Then she blurts, panic rising fast, “They’re the entire color palette !”

My eyes snap to her. Peonies. Of course it’s the peonies.

The second she ends the call, her arm drops like dead weight to her side, and she turns to me. Her expression is pure devastation.

Eyes wide and glassy. Jaw slack. Like someone told her the wedding has been canceled and also the Earth is probably going to implode.

“Maya,” she says, her voice wobbling like it’s standing on the edge of a cliff. “I think I’m going to cry.”

“Nope.” I drop the ribbon like it’s on fire and cross to her in two quick strides. I gently take her elbows, grounding her. “We are not crying. We are going to take a breath and figure it out.”

“But the florist bailed on us,” she moans, throwing her head back dramatically. “Two days before the wedding! Two days!”

“She didn’t bail,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and rational, even as my heart picks up its own little panic rhythm. “She’s dealing with a shipping delay. That’s not the same.”

“It is exactly the same,” Danielle says, flopping into one of the rental chairs with the kind of flair that would win an Oscar in a drama.

“What are we supposed to do without the peonies? The invites, the linens, the bridesmaids’ dresses—everything was chosen around that soft blush color. Now it’s just…gone.”

The blush color she wanted, then didn’t want, than wanted again.

“You could pivot to hydrangeas?” I offer weakly.

She levels me with a dead-eyed stare. “Hydrangeas are funeral flowers.”

“Only when they’re blue,” I say, then immediately regret it.

She lets out a strangled groan and buries her face in her hands. “This is a disaster. I should’ve eloped. I should’ve married Chris at that Taco Bell on Route 14. He loves Taco Bell. I could’ve walked down the aisle to the sound of chimichangas sizzling.”

“You hate Taco Bell,” I remind her gently. “And Vegas. And Elvis impersonators. And doing things without a seating chart.”

Another groan. This one louder.

I reach out and squeeze her shoulder. “We’ll fix it. Promise.”

Before I can say anything else, a voice breaks through the tension.

“I might be able to help.”

I turn, startled. Ethan is leaning in the doorway between the prep room and the main hall, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pencil tucked behind his ear. He looks calm, but there’s an alertness to his eyes. How long has he been standing there?

Danielle lifts her head, hair disheveled and mascara threatening mutiny. “Unless you’ve got a secret peony farm behind the venue, I don’t see how.”

“I’ve got a sketchbook,” he says simply. “And a few ideas.”

Danielle blinks at him like he just said he moonlights as a magician. “Wait… are you saying you can design floral arrangements?”

He shrugs, cool and calm as ever. “Not real ones, but if you’re open to alternatives—paper flowers, fabric, even local seasonal stuff—I can help reimagine the centerpieces so they still feel cohesive. Romantic. Soft. Just…different.”

She stares at him.

I raise my eyebrows. “You’d really do that?”

He looks at me, and there’s a flicker in his expression—warmth, certainty. Confidence. “Yeah. I like a challenge.”

Danielle glances between the two of us, then slowly sits up straighter. “Okay. All right. What would you need?”

“Table dimensions, a few materials, and about an hour,” he says, already moving toward the craft table like a man on a mission. “And coffee. Possibly cookies.”

Danielle sniffles. “I’ll get the coffee.”

He throws her a small smile. “Make it strong.”

Then he looks at me again—briefly—but long enough to send a strange little shiver down my spine. Something flickers in my chest—confusion, maybe. After last night, I half-expected distance, or at least discomfort.

But he’s here. Helping. Looking at me like he hasn’t spent the last twenty-four hours avoiding a second kiss. What does that mean?

His pencil’s already in hand, sketchbook flipped open as he starts scribbling something that, from where I’m standing, already looks impossibly elegant.

Danielle wipes under her eyes and stands. “If he pulls this off, I might actually kiss him.”

I laugh and turn away before she can see the weird way that sentence hits me.

His lines are fluid. Confident. Purposeful.

Each stroke of the pencil is deliberate—elegant, even. He sketches with the kind of ease that makes it clear he’s not guessing. He knows .

Where the curve of a petal should sweep, how leaves should fall, how the centerpiece should guide the eye without overwhelming the table.

Danielle, seated beside him, leans closer, her mouth slightly open. “Holy crap. You’re really good.”

Ethan glances at her, giving a crooked smile like it’s no big deal. “I used to help my mom design stage sets,” he says. “She loved making things beautiful. Guess it rubbed off.”

Suddenly, we hear Danielle’s mom call out, “Danielle? Can you come here a moment?”

“Coming!” Danielle pushes to her feet before grumbling, “I swear to God, if she’s complaining about something, I’m going to snap.”

She leaves, and Ethan and I are suddenly alone.

I still don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m too caught up in watching him work. The way his brow furrows when he concentrates. The way his fingers dance over the page with a light, sure touch.

The way he looks at the world—like he’s always searching for details no one else notices. Like he wants to understand it, not just sketch it.

He flips to a fresh page, adjusting the sketchbook in his lap, and that’s when I see it.

It’s not a floral arrangement. It’s… me.

I blink, thinking maybe I imagined it, but the image is clear—too real and life-like to be mistaken.

I’m sitting by the window of the venue, exactly how I was two days ago. My hair is down, falling over one shoulder in loose waves, and I’m holding a mug between my hands.

I’m not facing the “camera”—his eyes, I guess—but there’s a peacefulness in the lines of my body.

A quiet I didn’t know I had. A softness I’ve never seen in myself.

I press a hand to my chest without meaning to. He saw me—quiet and still—in a way I never let myself be. Not even alone.

“Ethan…” I say in a breathy voice.

He startles slightly, fingers twitching, and then he flips the page with a snap. “That wasn’t meant for… It’s nothing.”

“Wait.” I reach out, catching his hand before he can move away. His skin is warm, his pulse erratic. My heart stumbles. “Was that me?”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t mean for you to see it.”

“Please let me see it again,” I insist softly.

He hesitates, and I can practically see the battle raging inside him. I know what I’m asking is something vulnerable for him. Something that requires trust, and I hold my breath as I wait for him to respond.

Finally, he exhales and opens the book again.

I gaze down at the image in awe.

This Maya looks peaceful. Like she belongs to herself.

My throat tightens.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, fingers brushing the edge of the page.

“You were sitting by the window,” he says quietly, his voice rougher now. “The light caught your face, and I just…” He shakes his head, not finishing the sentence. “I couldn’t not draw you.”

I glance up at him. “You made me look like art.”

He holds my gaze, and something in his eyes shifts. Deepens.

“You are art,” he says, his voice low and intense.

The air between us stretches and thickens. I can feel the heat rise up in my chest to my neck, spreading across my cheeks.

Everything around us—Danielle, the scattered ribbons and half-finished arrangements, the hum of voices in the hallway—fades into a low, indistinct hum.

I don’t even realize I’m leaning in until he mirrors the movement.

His hand moves across the sketchbook, fingers curling over mine. His eyes flick to my lips and then back up—hesitating, asking, waiting .

My heart beats once.

Twice.

Then, barely above a whisper: “Ethan…”

His name is barely off my lips before he closes the distance.

Our mouths meet in a kiss that’s careful and slow at first, but then his hand finds my cheek, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw, and I melt. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, and suddenly it’s like the room around us doesn’t exist anymore.

There’s just him. The warmth of his body leaning into mine. The sketchbook sliding from our laps to the floor in a quiet thud.

I thread my fingers into his hair, tugging gently, and he groans—low and rough against my lips. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. He tastes like spearmint and something darker, something uniquely Ethan , and I want more. I want all of it.

He pulls me into his lap, his hands finding my hips, gripping me tight. I straddle him instinctively, knees bracketing his thighs, and the sudden press of our bodies has both of us gasping.

His lips break away from mine only to trail down the column of my throat, each kiss leaving fire in its wake.

“Maya…” he murmurs, right against my skin. My name sounds different in his voice—almost like a prayer.

His hands slide beneath the hem of my shirt, palms skimming along my ribs. It’s not rushed. It’s not careless.

“You drive me crazy,” he says between kisses, voice rough and breathless. “I’ve tried to be quiet about it. I’ve tried to wait, but you’re everywhere.”

I press my forehead to his, our breaths mingling. “You don’t have to wait anymore.”

He groans again, this time deeper, and captures my mouth in another kiss—hotter now, more urgent. My hips shift, seeking friction, and the way he grips me tighter in response has my whole body lighting up.

Every nerve ending, every thought, every wall I’d carefully built around myself—it all falls away.

We lose ourselves in that moment, in each other. In the honesty of it. The ache of finally giving in.

Then footsteps echo in the hallway.

We freeze.

I’m still in his lap. His hands are still under my shirt. My lips are swollen, and his sketch of me is face-up on the floor.

Ethan looks at me, chest rising and falling, eyes dark with everything we didn’t get to say.

“We should…” I breathe.

“Yeah,” he says, voice raw.

Reluctantly, I move off him, smoothing my shirt. He bends to retrieve the sketchbook, closing it and tucking it away.