Page 5 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)

Chapter five

MAYA

T he second I step through the doors of the garden terrace, the air shifts.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Like the room exhales at my arrival, then holds its breath. The quiet hum of polite conversation dulls slightly, like someone turned the volume down by a notch. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But I do.

And that’s when I see him.

Nick.

He’s just… there. Leaning casually against a white-column draped in gauzy fabric and eucalyptus vines, like some cursed Greek statue brought to life.

Crisp white shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled to the elbows like he’s trying too hard not to try at all.

A half-full glass in one hand, his other tucked in his pocket.

And his eyes are locked on me.

For one too-long, too-loud moment, we stare at each other.

His expression gives me nothing. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. But his eyes—God, his eyes are exactly the same. Sharp. Unrelenting. Like twin searchlights dragging across every part of me I thought I’d buried under distance and time.

My heart slams against my ribs, fast and furious, like it’s trying to warn me: Run. Retreat. Regret.

But I don’t.

I pull in a shallow breath, straighten my spine, and force a tight-lipped smile.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, voice thinner than I’d like, and sidestep him.

I don’t look back, but I can feel him watching me.

I weave through the crowd, past champagne flutes and curated floral arrangements that probably cost more than my car. The light streaming through the French doors is too warm, too golden, like the universe is mocking me for thinking I could keep cool and collected in this screwed-up situation.

I find a mimosa and wrap my fingers around the stem. My pulse is still racing, unsteady and unforgiving.

How did I think this was going to be okay?

This whole thing—agreeing to be a bridesmaid in Nick’s sister’s wedding—felt abstract when it consisted only of emails and calendar invites. A paycheck wrapped in tulle. A favor for Danielle. I told myself I could handle it. That I was a professional. That I’d moved on.

But one look at him and it all crashes back like a damn tidal wave.

The late-night arguments that started with nothing and ended with everything.

The way his voice would dip and roughen when he apologized, all stubborn pride cracking at the edges.

The way I used to fall asleep best on his couch, his hoodie drowning me in warmth, the smell of cedar and soap clinging to my skin.

The way it ended—badly. Messily. With more silence than closure.

I push the thoughts down. Deep, deep down. Lock the door. Throw away the key.

Danielle deserves her day. And I’m not letting a ghost from my past ruin it. But as I exhale, I hear the quiet scrape of his voice behind me.

“Maya.”

I don’t turn at first. Just swirl the bottom of my mimosa like the orange juice pulp might spell out a polite exit strategy.

Eventually, I look over my shoulder. “Nick.”

He’s already too close. Not enough to draw attention, but enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne and the familiar tension he carries in his shoulders when he’s about to say something he probably shouldn’t.

“You weren’t going to say hi?”

I tilt my head. “Didn’t want to interrupt the show. You looked busy holding court.”

He exhales, sharp and humorless. “Right. So now we pretend we’re strangers.”

I sip my drink. “Pretending’s your specialty, isn’t it?”

That lands harder than I mean it to—but I don’t take it back. His jaw ticks.

“You look different,” he says finally, eyes flicking down my dress, pausing at my neckline long enough to piss me off.

“So do you,” I reply flatly. “Older. Angrier. Still trying too hard.”

His mouth twists. “Still got that bite, huh?”

“And you still think it’s flattering to pick a fight in the middle of a wedding brunch?”

He lowers his voice, but his tone sharpens. “I’m not trying to fight. I just—didn’t expect to feel like a ghost in the room where you’re standing.”

My laugh is dry and cold. “You’re not a ghost, Nick. You’re a past I don’t feel like revisiting.”

For a second, he doesn’t respond. Just looks at me like I’m something he used to own but can’t quite figure out how he lost.

“You know, I spent a long time thinking you’d come back.”

“I spent a long time convincing myself I wouldn’t.”

That hits. I watch him blink once, slow. The kind of blink that tries to hide how much it stings.

“I’m not here to stir anything up,” he says, a little too tightly. “I came to support Danielle. Not to—”

“Not to what?” I cut in, eyes locking with his. “Not to corner me and ask loaded questions? Not to remind me how many good years we faked?”

The space between us hums like a pulled wire. One more word, and something’s going to snap.

He shakes his head, voice low. “You always rewrite the ending to make yourself the hero.”

“And you always want the last word.” I lean in slightly, smiling enough to make it hurt. “But here’s the truth, Nick—you don’t get to decide who I am anymore.”

A long, brittle pause. Then he lets out a breath, a laugh that doesn’t even try to sound genuine.

“Enjoy your drink, Maya.”

“Enjoy the mirror,” I say, turning back to my mimosa. “I hear it’s still your favorite conversation partner.”

This time, I don’t watch him go. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, I take a slow breath, let the noise of the party settle around me again. The clink of glassware. Laughter that doesn’t belong to me. My pulse still tapping out a rhythm I don’t love.

Then—like the universe deciding I’ve had enough drama for one morning—I hear a voice that steadies me.

“Hey, stranger.”

Liam.

I hadn’t noticed him standing near the entry to the patio, half-shadowed by ivy-covered columns and soft amber string lights.

He’s nursing a drink, posture relaxed but alert, like he’s quietly taking notes on everyone in the room without needing a pen.

He’s tall and calm in a steady, centered kind of way.

Liam Walsh is the kind of man you notice twice.

The first time, it’s all surface—broad shoulders, firefighter build, that ever-present five o’clock shadow that somehow makes him look both rugged and unfairly handsome.

Gray eyes that miss nothing. Sandy brown hair messy enough to look effortless.

He moves like someone who knows his own strength but doesn’t throw it around.

The second time you notice him? That’s when it gets dangerous.

Under all that stoic calm and Greek-statue muscle is a man who hums when he’s concentrating, who gets irrationally passionate about baking shows, who carries a pocketknife like he was born to fix what’s broken.

Liam is dependable in a way that sneaks up on a person. He won’t make grand declarations or showboat his intentions. But if the world is on fire—literally or otherwise—he’s there with a steady hand and a plan. No panic. No pretense.

Right now, with my nerves frayed and Nick still a phantom in the back of my thoughts, that’s exactly what I need.

His gaze finds mine, and he offers a slow, easy smile.

Something flickers low in my stomach.

Maybe it’s the way he looks at me—steady, like I’m not unraveling.

Or maybe it’s the way his eyes linger a second too long. Not intrusive. Not possessive. Just… aware.

“Hey,” I say, my voice softer than I meant it to be.

I take a sip of my drink, just to have something to do with my hands. His eyes track the motion, and suddenly the air feels heavier.

“Didn’t expect to see you here so early,” he says.

“What can I say?” I shrug. “I like to arrive fashionably awkward.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—barely—but it’s real. “You wear it well.”

Before I can say anything more, another familiar voice cuts in—slick and unmistakably amused.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the most dangerous thing in chiffon.”

I’m tired of flinching at ghosts.

Ethan slides into view like he owns the place, all charm and perfectly mussed hair that somehow looks intentional. His smile is laced with mischief, and the way his eyes rake over me isn’t even pretending to be subtle.

I arch a brow, smirking. “You rehearsing lines now?”

“Only for you,” he says, pressing a hand to his heart like I’ve wounded him, grin spreading. “Although I might recycle that one for the toast. Could be a crowd-pleaser.”

“You’d get booed off the mic.”

He grins wider. “Yeah, but I’d look damn good doing it.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. Damn him. Somehow, Ethan always knows how to crack the surface, even when I don’t want him to.

Jake appears a second later, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, tie already loosened like he’s allergic to formality. He surveys the group with a lazy grin, then gives me a slow once-over.

“You know,” he says, “if this whole bridesmaid gig doesn’t work out, you’ve got serious potential as the face of some overpriced French perfume. You’ve got that whole ‘tragically untouchable’ thing going on.”

I laugh before I can stop myself.

The sound startles me—bright, real, almost unfamiliar. It cracks a bit more of the ice that’s been lodged in my chest since I stepped into this place.

They don’t treat me like a landmine. They treat me like… me. Like I’m not a ghost of a failed relationship. Like I’m not a ticking bomb.

Each smile, each tease, each casual brush of attention chips away at the tension still wrapped around my spine.

Even now, though, surrounded by three men who’ve always managed to make me feel seen in different ways, I feel it—that sharp prickle at the base of my neck.

I glance across the room.

Nick.

He’s half-turned, speaking to someone in a navy blazer I vaguely recognize, but he’s not listening. His eyes are locked on me. Intense. Unreadable. Cold and distant.

I drag my gaze back to the group, forcing the corners of my mouth up. School my features into something breezy, something untouched.

I can play the part. I’ve done it before.

If Nick thinks for one second that he can still get under my skin, it’s over. I won’t give him that.

Deep breath. Shoulders back. Just another performance in pastel chiffon—except the audience is full of people who know how the last act ended.