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

Chapter two

LIAM

N ick’s pacing again.

That’s the third full lap around the couch and coffee table in his sister’s house. Fourth, if you count the frantic spiral he made after spilling his old-fashioned and cursing the “cosmic irony” of it all.

He’s wearing a deep groove into the rug.

Ethan’s perched on the edge of the couch with a bottle of beer, watching Nick like he’s a quarterback about to throw a Hail Mary into a burning dumpster.

It’s the same expression he wore when our fantasy football draft went sideways and someone picked three tight ends in the first four rounds—equal parts confusion, dread, and morbid curiosity.

Ethan’s the kind of guy that gets noticed even when he’s not trying to be seen. Tall, broad, that stillness about him that feels more like coiled tension than calm. He doesn’t say much—never has—but when he does, he cuts right through the bullshit.

Black hair always a little tousled, and dark blue eyes that catch everything even when it doesn’t seem like he’s paying attention. Most people misread him. Think he’s aloof, cold, maybe a little intense. But I know better. Ethan feels everything. He keeps it locked down like a damn vault.

Jake’s slouched in the corner with his phone, thumbs flying, pretending he’s deep in a thread about something—sports, memes, the geopolitical state of snack prices—but I can tell he’s listening. That’s Jake’s version of diplomacy: stay quiet, stay chill, and let everyone else implode first.

Jake Carter is chaos in human form. The fun kind, mostly.

The kind people don’t see coming until they’re already laughing too hard to care what he’s gotten them into.

He’s got that stupid grin—dimples, of course—and a glint in his green eyes that usually means he’s about to say something wildly inappropriate or wildly clever. Sometimes both.

He’s all lean lines and quick movements, like he runs on instinct and caffeine and the thrill of getting a rise out of people. Jake can charm the hell out of anyone. Bartenders, grandmothers, bouncers… doesn’t matter. Give him ten seconds and a bad pun, and somehow everyone’s in love with him.

I’m in Nick’s leather armchair, leaned back like I’m watching a live episode of Emotional Meltdowns of the Moderately Wealthy . It squeaks slightly when I shift, but I don’t bother to adjust. The drama is getting good.

“She said yes, man. Can you believe that?” Nick snaps, suddenly flinging himself onto the couch. “Danielle hired her. Like this is some gig. Like she’s just showing up for the paycheck and not, you know, to haunt my entire existence.”

Jake doesn’t look up from his phone. “I mean, it is a paycheck.”

Nick sits up and scowls. “Not helping, Jake.”

Jake shrugs without looking up. “Just saying.”

Ethan takes a long pull of his beer and mutters, “You need therapy.”

“What was that?” Nick snaps, eyes flashing.

“I said,” Ethan replies evenly, “you need therapy. Like actual therapy. With a licensed professional and probably a journal.”

Nick waves him off and gets to his feet again, dragging a hand through his hair.

“You don’t get it. She’s going to be around all weekend.

At every event. Every photo. Every toast. I’m gonna turn, and bam , there she is—probably sipping champagne and smiling that fake-sweet smile like she’s not bothered at all to be there with my family in my space! ”

“She has a strong passive-aggressive game,” Jake adds. “That’s undeniable.”

Nick paces again, jaw tight, hands gesturing wildly in the air .

“She’ll make these little digs,” he continues, “like, ‘Oh, Nick, remember when you tried to cook and nearly burned down your kitchen?’, in front of my grandmother or something. Like I’m some sad disaster she pitied for a while.

And she’ll do that thing where she tilts her head like she’s listening, but she’s actually judging you. ”

I exhale slowly through my nose and rub the back of my neck. The thing is… I get it.

I haven’t known Maya long—just a few run-ins before this wedding madness started, when she was with Nick.

I didn’t think much of her at first. She was pretty, but she was my friend’s girl. Then, something happened one day out of the blue. She turned, tucked her hair behind one ear, and gave me this warm smile, her brown eyes twinkling.

And bam— she was no longer just my friend’s girlfriend.

I remember a charity event we both ended up at, and we got stuck in line for valet while it drizzled. We ended up talking for twenty straight minutes about the tragedy of mini quiches and why tacos at midnight should be a basic human right.

She’d made me laugh. Genuinely. I remember thinking she had this rare energy about her—equal parts mischief and warmth.

The kind of woman who could talk a security guard into letting her into a rooftop party without an invite, and then spend the night befriending the bartender and remembering your drink order six months later.

“Nick,” I finally say when the pacing and ranting hit a new, high-strung pitch. “Maybe don’t give her all the power. She’s not doing anything yet except breathing in the same zip code.”

He glares at me. “You weren’t there.”

“No,” I agree, “but I am here . And right now? You’re letting a woman with a sarcastic smile ruin your blood pressure.”

“She’s not just a woman,” he snaps. “She’s Maya. ”

Jake smirks. “So, like Beyoncé, but with unresolved emotional trauma?”

Ethan finally cracks a smile. “Maya Knowles.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. Nick glares at all of us like we’re the worst support group ever formed, but it breaks the tension.

A little. Not enough to fix the mess, but maybe enough to survive the weekend.

Maybe.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I think of Maya’s laugh.

Open. Unbothered. Never forced or polite—it was real. Like she wasn’t afraid of being loud, or soft, or seen.

It was… charming.

Yeah, that’s the word for it. Charming. That’s a good description of the girl, though I wouldn’t dare say that out loud in front of Nick.

With the way he’s acting, he’s likely to kick my ass if I say anything positive about his ex. If he found out I’m actually pretty attracted to her, he’d totally lose his shit.

Nick glares at the floor, then snaps his head up. “Everyone acts like Maya can do no wrong, but she’s not perfect. She’s cold. Calculated. Our breakup wasn’t just on me!” He laughs bitterly—sharp, humorless. “But hey, I guess some people eat that shit up, right?”

Ethan opens his mouth, probably to tell him to cool it, but Nick’s already halfway to the door.

He storms out of the room, his jaw clenched, shoulders tight. The door slams harder than necessary, followed by the dull thump of what’s probably him hitting a wall or yelling into one of Danielle’s decorative pillows.

As soon as the door clicks shut, the tension in the room drops ten degrees.

Jake glances up from his phone, stretching his legs out in front of him like the world’s most casual disaster responder. “So… meltdown incoming, right?”

“No,” Ethan says, deadpan, not even looking up from his beer. “Meltdown’s already happening. We’re waiting for the explosion.”

I sigh and lean forward, elbows on knees. “We need to manage this. Danielle’s wedding is in four days. If Nick implodes, he’ll take down half the bridal party with him. And I like Danielle. I’d prefer she not murder her own brother before the cake’s cut.”

Jake lets out a low whistle. “Could be good TV, though. Real Housewives of Hudson Valley: Wedding Edition. ”

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “You volunteering to be the bridesmaid who throws wine?”

Jake shrugs. “Depends on the wine.”

I give them both a look, one part exasperation, two parts resignation. “We need a plan. Like, now. If he keeps pacing holes into the carpet and ranting about Maya, he’s gonna end up crying into a centerpiece or punching a groomsman.”

“Think we can distract him with shots and vague moral support?” Jake offers, only half joking.

“Maybe,” Ethan says. “Or we tag team it. Keep him busy. Keep him away from Maya as much as possible. You know, the ol’ divide-and-conquer strategy.”

“Right.” I nod. “If he’s busy wrangling boutonnières or giving toast tips or holding sparklers and pretending not to sob during the father-daughter dance, he won’t have time to spiral.”

Jake leans back in his chair and throws an arm behind his head. “Or—and hear me out—we let him have one massive outburst right now. Like, full-on emotional exorcism. Then maybe he gets it out of his system and we’re in the clear.”

Ethan and I both give him a look.

“What?” Jake lifts his hands. “Controlled detonation. Happens in movies all the time. Kidding,” he mutters a second later when no one laughs.

I run a hand down my face and glance toward the door Nick stormed through, half-expecting to hear drywall cracking. He’s a mess, sure—but Maya? Maya’s not some innocent background extra. She’s smart. Sharp. She’s got her own fuse, and if Nick lights it…

“She’s calm,” I say aloud, more to myself than them. “But she’s not passive. She’ll bite back if she needs to.”

Ethan grunts in agreement. “Maya doesn’t throw punches. She uses words, and she knows exactly where to land them.”

Jake nods. “Yeah. If she throws a grenade, it’ll be emotional, elegant, and premeditated.”

A silence stretches between us.

“Great,” I mutter. “We’re not in a rom-com. We’re in a cold war with seating charts.”

Jake snorts. “And monogrammed napkins.”

I rise from the chair, already dreading what fresh drama tomorrow’s bridal events might bring.

“We need reinforcements. Champagne. Maybe a sedative. And someone needs to make sure Nick doesn’t corner Maya in a hallway with a speech he thinks is cathartic but is actually an emotional hostage situation. ”

“Dibs not it,” Jake says.

“Same,” Ethan adds, already cracking open another beer.

I grab my keys and shake my head. “Fine. I’ll handle it.”

Maybe we’ll survive this weekend without things going full scorched-earth.

But looking at the pieces on the board—Nick, Maya, unresolved history and a dangerously flammable bouquet of tension—I’m not betting on it. Especially not with Maya looking at me like I’m more than just Nick’s friend.

And God help me—I want her to.