Page 42 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)

I toss the phone into the passenger seat, start the car, and ease out of the parking lot. The sun is lower now, slanting gold across the windshield, catching on the cracked spines of the paperbacks on the seat beside me.

***

The scent of sugar and cinnamon fills the car, warm and heady even through the closed lid of the bakery box on the passenger seat. It blends with the paper-and-ink musk of the bookstore bag beside it, the two smells oddly comforting in their contrast.

I tap the steering wheel with my fingers as I pull into the driveway.

Just as the last sliver of sun slips behind the neighboring rooftops, the porch glows in amber light, painting the edge of the mailbox and the flower pots on the steps. A cicada drones somewhere in the distance, the hum of fall dusk settling in.

Our house.

Warm and lived-in, the siding slightly faded on one side, flower beds in various stages of bloom because none of us remembers to water them consistently.

The porch light is already on—Ethan’s habit. Always the first to flick it on, even before the sky dims.

I grab the cinnamon rolls and the crinkled bookstore bag, balancing both in one arm as I head up the walkway. The screen door creaks open before I even reach for the handle.

Maya.

She leans against the doorframe like she’s been waiting for me. She’s barefoot, toes curling slightly against the worn porch mat, wearing a pair of charcoal leggings and one of Jake’s old sweatshirts that hangs off one shoulder.

There’s a smear of dark juice on her thigh, like she wiped her fingers there absentmindedly. Her hair is up in a messy twist, wisps framing her flushed cheeks, and her eyes sparkle with something between pride and mischief.

“You didn’t forget,” she says, gaze zeroing in on the bakery box.

“Wouldn’t dare.” I hold it up like an offering. “Your cravings rule my world now, remember?”

“Damn right they do,” she says, smirking, and steps back to let me in.

I pass her, brushing a kiss against her temple as I go, and I’m hit by that familiar wave of home—soft cotton, lavender lotion, and something warm and savory still lingering in the air from dinner.

A note of garlic, maybe rosemary. Jake must’ve cooked.

The living room is softly lit by a single lamp over the couch. Pillows are half-flopped over one another, and a knitted blanket is draped messily across the armrest, trailing onto the floor.

A mug of tea sits cold and forgotten on the coffee table next to Maya’s open laptop, a half-folded baby registry pamphlet sticking out from underneath it. A crumpled napkin. One slipper. The usual lived-in chaos.

From the kitchen, I hear the clatter of dishes—Jake’s doing something with the drying rack—and the faint hum of Ethan’s voice from down the hallway, probably finishing a phone call.

“What’s with the stain?” I tease, pointing to her thigh.

She glances down. “Oh, that… I was dipping raspberries in peanut butter for a snack earlier.”

“Raspberries and peanut butter?” I ask, raising a skeptical brow as I kick off my shoes.

Maya makes a face and grabs the box from my hands. “Okay, it sounds awful, but it worked in a weird, tangy-sweet, nutty kind of way. I won’t make you try it. Unless you piss me off.”

I chuckle, following her into the kitchen. “Duly noted.”

She calls over her shoulder, “Guys! Cinnamon rolls incoming!”

Jake pokes his head around the corner a moment later, his damp hair curling against his forehead, still towel-drying the back of his neck. He’s in flannel pajama pants and a tank top that reads World’s Okayest Chef.

“About damn time,” he grumbles, but he’s grinning. “You took forever.”

“I had to make a stop,” I say, walking over to the coffee table and setting the box down with a theatrical flourish.

Ethan’s voice comes from the hallway, growing closer. “Tell me this is the kind with extra frosting.”

“I literally threatened the poor teenage cashier to make sure,” I say, deadpan.

Jake grins, clapping a hand on my shoulder as he passes.

“That’s our boy,” he says, and it’s not just about the cinnamon rolls or the ridiculous book—it’s approval, affection, and belonging, all packed into three words.

Maya’s already curling onto the couch, tucking one leg beneath her, the other pulled close. Her sweatshirt sleeves cover her hands as she beams up at me, eyes wide with that giddy, unfiltered delight that always knocks the air out of my lungs.

“Did you get it?”

I nod, reaching into the bookstore bag and tossing the paperback into her lap. What to Expect When You’re Expecting a Werewolf lands with a soft thud on the blanket.

She stares at it for a second, and then lets out a cackle so loud it startles Jake, who nearly drops one of the cinnamon rolls.

“Oh my God, ” she wheezes, flipping the book over to read the blurb. “It’s even worse than I imagined. ‘Hairy cravings and full-moon nesting instincts’?”

“You’re welcome,” I say, sinking down beside her, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. She leans into me.

Ethan settles on the floor at her feet, stretching his legs out and reaching for a cinnamon roll. He rests his back against the couch, head tilted just enough that it brushes Maya’s knee.

Jake returns with two forks, flopping into the armchair with a theatrical grunt and tossing one onto the coffee table. “If this has raisins again, I swear to God…”

“I checked,” I deadpan. “You’re safe.”

Ethan grabs the remote and turns the TV on, filling the space with the opening notes of a show we’ve already watched five times. Familiar jokes. Familiar lines. The kind of comfort that requires no attention, just presence.

Maya peels off a gooey piece of cinnamon roll and holds it out to Ethan. “Here. Taste and tell me I’m not a genius.”

He takes it dramatically, eyes fluttering closed as he bites in. “I could die right now. This is what heaven tastes like.”

Jake snorts, mouth full. “You’re such a cinnamon slut.”

Maya grins and tears off another piece, popping it into her own mouth before turning to me. She kisses my cheek, soft and lingering, her lips warm and sugary. “Thanks for going.”

I meet her gaze. “I’d go a hundred times.”

She watches me for a bit longer than usual. Like she’s reading me the way she always can. Not pushing, just noticing .

“You okay?” she asks, so only I hear it over the TV.

I pause.

I think of Nick’s face. His words. The weight of what I said back. The freedom of it. I think of the walk to the car, the tremble in my hands, the buzz still in my chest.

I nod. “Yeah. I am now.”

She doesn’t press. Just nods once, slow and certain, and laces her fingers through mine. Her head rests against my shoulder, and I let myself sink into it. Let my body uncoil at last.

The tension drains from me slowly, like water down a drain. I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been holding everything—until this.

The quiet. The warmth. The simple nearness of her and the guys close by.

Ethan leans his head back against Maya’s leg and says, “If anyone touches that last roll before I’ve had my second, I will take you out with a fork.”

Jake flips him off lazily from the armchair without even looking away from the TV screen.

Maya laughs, and I feel it vibrate through her into me.