Page 17 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)

Chapter seventeen

ETHAN

T he second I hear Maya’s voice say my name, I know I’m not walking away from this unscathed.

Not now.

Not ever.

The kiss is still thrumming through my bloodstream like an electric current that’s rewired everything I thought I knew. We pulled apart, yeah, but the moment hasn’t let go. It’s stitched into my skin, caught between heartbeats.

Her lips. That stunned, quiet gasp. The way her fingers curled in my hair like instinct had finally won the war against reason.

Now I’m rooted in place at the edge of the craft room, sketchbook tight against my ribs like it’s the only thing keeping me from coming undone.

My breath is shallow, and the air tastes like hot glue and lavender and citrus and something else entirely—something that might be her.

Across the room, Maya stands near the long folding table littered with centerpiece chaos—plastic bins half-filled with ribbon, fake eucalyptus leaves curling at the edges, a pair of gold-handled scissors glinting in the sunlight.

She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, but her fingers tremble just enough to give her away. She still won’t meet my eyes.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, arms folded loosely across her chest like she’s trying to protect herself from something that already happened.

The hallway behind us is quiet again. Whoever shuffled by earlier is long gone, but the silence left in their wake is thick and charged, pressing in around us with all the things we haven’t said.

I clear my throat, fumbling for something that sounds normal. Safe. Not “I’ve thought about kissing you more times than I can count.” Not “you undo me without even trying.”

“So… Danielle’s going to be okay, right?”

It’s a dumb thing to say. A conversational life raft, but Maya lets out a small, breathy laugh that feels like a pressure valve finally releasing.

“Yeah,” she says, smoothing the skirt of her dress like it might help ground her. “I think the threat of fabric peonies finally snapped her out of it.”

I smile despite myself. Her laugh slips under my ribs, curling warm and dangerous.

Then, finally, finally, her eyes lift to mine.

It’s not a long look, but it’s enough. Enough to make my chest tighten with all the things I’m still not saying. Her cheeks are pink, whether from the kiss or the wedding stress or both, I can’t tell. But it leaves me dizzy, the echo of that moment still clinging to the air like static.

I shift a step closer, careful not to startle whatever fragile thing has formed between us. I lift the sketchbook in my arms, tapping the edge of it once.

“About the drawing…”

Maya’s gaze drops to it like she’s just remembered it exists. Her voice is quiet when she speaks. “Ethan, you don’t have to explain. I’m just so flattered. I didn’t know you were paying so much attention to me.”

I take another step toward her. My boots creak against the scuffed wooden floor.

“I always see you,” I say quietly. “I think I did before I even knew I was looking.”

Her lips part like she’s about to speak, then close again.

The light shifts between us, casting warm gold across her shoulders. For a second, we’re both just standing in it, surrounded by forgotten centerpieces and unsaid truths.

Maya breathes in slowly, “I don’t know what this is yet.”

“Me either,” I say, my chest tightening. “But I know I don’t want to pretend it’s nothing.”

Her eyes search mine, not with fear, but with something deeper. Tentative hope. Wary trust.

She nods once. A soft, thoughtful dip of her chin. It feels like a thread tying us closer, one neither of us is quite ready to tug on just yet.

“I should get back to helping,” she says after a beat, nodding toward the craft table and all the artificial florals we had on hand. The bouquets are still half-finished, sprigs of baby’s breath poking out at odd angles like they’re halfway between blooming and breaking.

Then she adds, almost playfully, “Unless you’ve got more secret portraits of me stashed in there.”

I arch a brow. “Just the one.”

She gives me that look. The half-amused, half-interrogating one she always throws my way when she’s two seconds from calling me on my shit.

“Okay,” I admit, holding up my hands. “Maybe two.”

That laugh bursts out of her like a breath she forgot she’d been holding. It’s clear and real and bright, and it does something dangerous to my heartbeat.

I watch her return to the table, the rhythm of her movements smoother now. The stress that’s been riding her shoulders all day seems to ease, just a little.

Her fingers begin sorting through the mess of florals and wire with new calm, like the chaos can wait, like maybe everything doesn’t have to be on fire to feel urgent.

I slide onto the edge of the low stage platform nearby, resting the sketchbook on my knee. I flip it open, thumbing past old lines and shadows until I find her face.

The drawing is rough in places. Unfinished. But there’s something there—something I caught in her when she wasn’t looking.

Not a smile exactly, but a lightness. A quiet strength that snuck past her guard and landed on the page before I could overthink it.

I glance up at her one more time.

She doesn’t look at me, but she hums under her breath while she works, and it’s the most soothing sound I think I’ve ever heard.