Page 8 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)
Chapter eight
LIAM
I f Maya’s the general, I’m the guy quietly building barricades and calculating worst-case scenarios like I’m prepping for a siege.
The conference room at the event center is empty when I get there the day after she’s taken over as coordinator—cool, sterile, and humming faintly with the overhead buzz of fluorescent lights.
The windows lining the far wall offer a view of the street below, where early sunlight filters through the trees, catching on windshields and making the sidewalks glow.
I toss my keys down on the end of the conference table and settle into the nearest chair, elbows propped on my knees.
Maya has a list of tasks written out on a whiteboard and as I look over them, my stomach twists.
We’re only a couple days from the wedding, but it feels like there’s so much to do still. I don’t think the ex-coordinator was worth her salt because things are kind of a mess. It’s not even my wedding, and I already need a drink.
But this isn’t about Danielle or her Pinterest-fueled chaos. This is about Maya. She asked for help, and I didn’t even hesitate. Not once.
The door creaks open, and in she walks, phone pressed to one ear, clipboard in hand, a pen clipped to the collar of her linen blouse.
Her hair’s twisted up in that loose, casual way she probably spent twenty minutes perfecting, and the second her eyes meet mine across the table, everything quiets. Just a little.
“Morning,” I say, straightening a little as she approaches. I nod toward the clipboard. “New list or revised from the last five?”
She sighs, sliding into the chair across from me and flipping the clipboard onto the table. “Revised from yesterday. Updated as of two a.m. Danielle decided she hates the color blush now. Apparently, it’s ‘out.’” She even adds finger quotes for emphasis.
I let my head fall back with a groan, eyes on the ceiling. “Great. Let’s burn the entire floral order and start fresh. Should only take a few days we don’t have.”
“Already told her no,” Maya says, brushing a piece of hair from her cheek and tucking it behind her ear like she’s done it a thousand times this morning alone. “Politely. Firmly. Like an adult who doesn’t want to commit murder in broad daylight.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Growth.”
She cracks a smile and that alone feels like a minor miracle.
The door swings open again, and in strolls Jake, sunglasses perched on his head, carrying two iced coffees. Ethan’s right behind him, less composed, juggling a laptop bag and a half-open breakfast sandwich.
“Morning, clipboard overlord,” Jake says with a mock salute as he slides into a chair. “What disaster are we salvaging first?”
Maya doesn’t even blink. “Seating chart.”
Jake groans and flops dramatically into the chair next to her. “Why is it always the seating chart?”
“Because Danielle keeps rearranging it like she’s planning a battle formation,” Maya replies, dry as ever. “Except instead of swords, everyone’s armed with passive-aggressive vendettas and fragile egos.”
“Sounds like my last family reunion,” Ethan mutters, peeling the wrapper off his sandwich and settling into the chair beside me. “We’re all gonna die.”
“Not if we act fast,” I say, grabbing the dry-erase marker from the ledge under the board and turning toward the white surface. “Let’s triage. What’s stable, what’s a minor emergency, and what’s full-on cardiac arrest?”
I sketch three uneven columns on the whiteboard and label them with slanted block letters. Maya rises to her feet and joins me at the board, flipping a page on her clipboard.
“Okay, stable: photographer’s confirmed. Bakery is still good—no nut allergies in the cake tiers, thank god. The officiant is booked and I made sure to confirm they have all the details they need.”
“Minor emergency?” I ask.
“The bridal party order. Danielle decided last night that she wants her cousin removed and her yoga instructor promoted to her place instead.”
Jake’s head snaps up. “Wait, Miranda ? The one who introduced her to goat yoga?”
“Apparently goat yoga changed her life,” Maya says flatly.
“Honestly, same,” Ethan deadpans.
I add “Bridesmaid switch” under the Minor Emergency column, biting back a laugh.
“Cardiac arrest?” I ask.
Maya hesitates for a second. Then she blows out a breath and says, “The DJ’s in the hospital with appendicitis. And Danielle wants to move the entire ceremony to the rooftop now because the ballroom feels ‘too formal.’”
Jake drops his head to the table. “We are so screwed.”
I glance over at Maya, and she’s pinching the bridge of her nose again. Her calm’s still intact, but I can see the hairline cracks forming around the edges.
Her eyes flick to mine when I hand her the marker.
“I don’t know how you haven’t thrown the clipboard yet,” I say softly.
The corner of her mouth lifts. “Tempting. But then who would keep you from lighting things on fire?”
I laugh under my breath. “Fair point.”
She takes the marker, writes “Rooftop logistics: ???” under the Cardiac Arrest column, and steps back.
Jake leans in, whispering theatrically to Ethan, “That’s the look of a woman two caffeine hits away from a full mental break.”
Ethan hums. “Or two kisses away, depending on who you ask.”
I give them both a look. Jake just winks.
Maya ignores them, brushing past me to sit again. But as she passes, her fingers graze my arm—quick, fleeting, maybe even accidental. But it stays with me. Like sparks along my skin.
***
The first hour actually goes… well. Better than I expected, if I’m being honest.
The conference room has transformed into a makeshift command center.
The whiteboard’s filling fast with color-coded notes and sketches, Maya’s laptop is open to the updated itinerary, and the table’s scattered with spreadsheets, printed vendor agreements, a couple half-eaten muffins, and three different highlighters.
Outside, the sun filters through the blinds in pale stripes, heating the table in uneven patches, while the hum of the building’s A/C provides a soft white noise under all our frantic organization.
Jake, of course, is not built for this. He’s slouched in his chair with a pen in his mouth, sketching caricatures of the bridal party across the back of one of Maya’s carefully printed timelines.
The one of Danielle is… honestly kind of genius. Giant eyes, tiara, fireballs coming out of her hands. Drama queen energy to the max.
“You’re welcome,” he says as he shows it to me, wiggling his eyebrows.
“I’m not saying it’s accurate,” I murmur, “but I’m also not not saying that.”
Ethan, bless him, is actually working. He’s hunched over his laptop, muttering under his breath as he cross-references the bakery’s delivery window with the venue access hours.
“Do you think they’ll be able to refrigerate the mini quiches on-site?” he asks, tapping a line in the spreadsheet.
“I think I don’t want to hear the phrase ‘soggy pastry’ ever again,” Jake says without looking up.
It’s all humming—cohesive chaos. Like a well-oiled machine that’s aware the bolts are loose but pushing forward anyway.
“If we do shift things to the roof,” I say, “we’re gonna need backup lighting—those overhead string lights you liked would still work. We’ll need umbrellas for guests, just in case, and someone on weather watch.”
Jake straightens in his chair, hand to his heart. “I volunteer. I will make hourly weather updates sexy.”
“I’m both curious and terrified,” Ethan mutters.
Maya laughs. It rolls over the tension in the room like sunlight cutting through fog.
She reaches out, brushing her fingers against the back of my hand in a moment so quick I almost think I imagined it.
But I didn’t. Because I stop breathing for a second.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. Sincerely.
I glance at her, heart skipping a beat that has nothing to do with wedding prep and everything to do with her.
For just a second, I forget we’re drowning in Danielle’s drama. I forget we’re surrounded by crumpled printouts, spreadsheets, and cold coffee. It doesn’t feel like a wedding war room anymore. It feels like… something else.
I clear my throat and look back at the board, needing something solid to latch onto before I start thinking with anything other than logic again.
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s wrangle some romance.”