Page 3 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)

Chapter three

JAKE

W e’re in Danielle’s living room, which honestly looks like it was lifted from a magazine spread called “Minimalism with Money.” White walls.

Pale wood floors. Everything beige, but make it bougie.

Throw pillows you’re not allowed to lean on.

A fake fur rug that probably cost more than my first car.

I relax into one of her armchairs, slightly too stiff for comfort but aesthetically pleasing, of course. My legs are stretched out, socked feet propped on a marble coffee table I’m definitely not supposed to touch. My fingers tap a lazy rhythm against my phone screen

The group chat is blowing up with bridal logistics—who’s arriving when, who’s allergic to shellfish, who has strong feelings about boutonnières—and somewhere between a close-up of peony arrangements and a surprisingly aggressive debate over vanilla bean versus raspberry filling, I scroll past a photo.

And there she is.

Maya.

God, she’s unreal.

She’s standing in the middle of a restaurant, posing with Danielle. Hair twisted into some complicated updo that shows off the line of her neck. Soft makeup, red lipstick, and heels.

It’s unfair, really, the way she can look so serene and effortlessly gorgeous even amidst chaos.

Like gravity bends around her. Like you want to move closer without knowing why.

I’ve always hated that.

She’s got that particular brand of beautiful that feels pointed. The kind that makes you check yourself. Am I standing weird? Is my joke funny? Do I have anything remotely interesting to say?

And sure, I’ve never been tongue-tied around her. I’ve got a full arsenal for this kind of situation: jokes, sarcasm, smug indifference, all loaded and ready.

That doesn’t mean I’m immune, though.

I think maybe the worst part is that Nick’s not wrong. Not completely.

Maya is calculating, but not in the way he means.

She’s not manipulative. She’s deliberate. Precise. She knows her worth and doesn’t waste energy pretending she doesn’t. If you can’t keep up, that’s on you, not her.

Nick couldn’t keep up, but that doesn’t mean I should try.

It also doesn’t mean I won’t.

“Stop thinking so loud,” Ethan mutters from the couch without looking up from whatever pretentious indie film he’s halfway ignoring. The volume’s low, background noise under the hum of the central air and the ticking of the designer wall clock.

“Rude,” I shoot back, still scrolling through my phone like I’m not currently spiraling. “Maybe I’m meditating.”

“You’re not.”

I let out a breath and glance around the room.

“Okay,” I say, sitting up straighter, tossing my phone aside. “Hear me out.”

Ethan sighs, already wary. “God, what now?”

“If this week is basically a landmine field disguised as a wedding, don’t we need a better strategy than ‘keep Nick from combusting’?”

He sets his beer down with a soft clink, then steeples his fingers like he’s preparing for a board meeting or a TED Talk. “You have a better idea?”

“I’m just saying…” I stretch my arms overhead, feel my spine pop. “Maybe we don’t avoid the drama. Maybe we control it. Lean into it. Redirect it.”

“You want to, what, direct the chaos like a stage manager?”

“Exactly!” I grin and snap my fingers. “Look, we all know Nick’s going to crack.

Maya might crack. Hell, Liam might emotionally short-circuit if this turns into a full-blown feelings-fest. But if we guide it—steer it—then maybe we make it through without anyone needing stitches or a restraining order. ”

Ethan stares at me for a long beat. He’s wearing an guarded look and I can’t tell if he’s going to give me a lecture or laugh in my face.

Then he says, in a deadpan tone, “You want to emotionally manipulate the entire wedding party like some kind of social puppet master.”

“Wow.” I nod slowly. “That’s hurtful. I prefer ‘emotionally facilitate .’ Or like… wedding week logistics coordinator, but for trauma.”

His mouth twitches. He’s trying not to smile.

“You’re an agent of chaos.”

“No, no, no,” I say, pointing at him. “ I’m an agent of order… within the chaos. There’s a difference.”

Ethan finally smirks. “We could test it on Liam,” he says dryly.

Oh, I like that idea. “Start small. Subtle. See how long it takes him to notice we’ve made him team dad.”

“He already is,” he mutters, plucking one of the fancy coasters off the table and spinning it between my fingers.

“True. But what if he knew it?” I say, leaning forward. “Might finally get him to relax. Embrace his true form.”

“And what, put on a ‘World’s Okayest Dad’ apron and start doing group check-ins over breakfast?”

I grin. “God, I’d pay to see that.”

We lapse into silence again. The film continues flickering on the TV—now some kind of moody black-and-white shot of two people arguing in French—and the room feels a little too calm. Like we’re waiting for something to explode.

I glance at the door, wondering when Nick will show up again. He’s gone out with Danielle to pick their mom from the airport.

“You think Nick’s still mad?” I ask.

Ethan doesn’t answer right away.

He’s staring out the window, watching the streetlights flicker on one by one as twilight deepens outside Danielle’s perfectly staged living room. The faint hum of a passing car and the soft clink of ice in his glass fill the silence between us.

“He’s not mad,” Ethan finally says, low and measured. “He’s hurt. And he doesn’t know where to put it.”

That’s the thing about Ethan. He doesn’t waste words. Doesn’t dress up the truth in pretty wrapping paper. He drops it in your lap like a weight and leaves you to deal with it however you can.

“Cool, cool,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “So basically, we’re babysitting a bruised ego and trying not to ruin Danielle’s dream wedding.”

“Basically.”

I smirk. “Awesome. Can’t wait for the rehearsal dinner.”

“I’ll bring my Kevlar.”

Ethan snorts, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, but it feels like a small win. He’s not one for laughter, so I take it.

My gaze drifts back down to my phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dim room. My thumb hovers over Maya’s contact. The one I absolutely shouldn’t have, but do, because once upon a time, long before she and Nick imploded like a faulty firework, she gave it to me “in case of prank emergencies.”

I never used it.

I’m not planning to now, but part of me wants to.

Not to meddle. Not to fix things.

Just… to talk to her. To see what she’s thinking. Feeling. If she’s as steady as she looks, or if this week’s unraveling her too, one perfect stitch at a time.

Ethan stands, the chair scraping softly against the hardwood floor. He heads toward the kitchen, where Danielle’s marble countertops gleam under pendant lights that feel like they belong in a Parisian café.

“You coming to the brunch tomorrow?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Free food and emotionally tense glances across a garden terrace? Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, half-joking, half-serious.

He doesn’t respond. Just disappears through the doorway with a shake of his head, the sound of the fridge door opening and closing following him like punctuation.

I sit there for a second longer, spinning my phone slowly in my hand, the screen reflecting the soft glow of the chandelier overhead.

Maya Knowles.

Nick’s chaos.

Liam’s caution.

Ethan’s skepticism.

And my problem.

But maybe also…my future.

God help me—I don’t even know if I’m rooting for the explosion anymore. Maybe I want to be standing in the middle of it when it happens.

And maybe I want her standing next to me when the dust settles.