Page 1 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
Chapter one
MAYA
The soft, muffled thud of the Le Marais doors closing behind me—too elegant to be a slam, but final enough to make me feel locked into something I’m not ready for—echoes in my ears.
Inside, the air is crisp and perfumed with what I assume is pure money—an understated floral scent that probably costs more than my rent. Champagne sparkles and there are white roses so flawless, they look like they have agents negotiating their lighting.
I self-consciously reach behind me, scratching my neck while secretly checking that my dress’s price tag is hidden. I knew I was going to need something of a higher caliber than my normal wardrobe, but since I can’t actually afford this floral Prada sundress, it will be going back to the store as soon as this meeting is over.
I shouldn’t be nervous—it’s just brunch. Just eggs, mimosas, and small talk. But my fingers twitch around my phone anyway.
Buzz.
A text from my best friend Ava pops up.
Ava: Good luck! Just think about the money and show Nick what a bad bitch you’ve become!
I smile at her message, feeling a little more at ease at the prospect of taking this job.
Suddenly, a new email lights up my screen.
Subject: Welcome to the Bridal Party!From: Danielle
Oh, good! She said she’d send the actual job offer before this meeting. I’m not surprised it’s a bit late, though.
Danielle Anderson, the human Pinterest board with perfectly glossed everything and a picture-perfect smile always at the ready, isn’t exactly the most organized person I’ve ever met. Though she has the best of intentions, she gets easily overwhelmed and has much more of a “pretend the problem isn’t there and maybe it’ll go away” approach than a proactive one.
Gazing down at my phone, I open the email to give it a quick glance as I make my way toward our table, not looking where I’m going.
And I walk straight into what I assume, for a split second, is a wall of navy linen and Tom Ford.
Except it’s not a wall.
It’s a man.
It’sNick.
My body goes cold, then hot, like my nerves short-circuited. My pulse slams in my ears. I can’t breathe. Can’t move. For a second, I think I might actually throw up on my borrowed Prada.It’s him. Same perfectly-pressed suit. Same too-white smile. But there’s something harder about him now—his stance squared off, like he’s bracing for a punch. Or about to throw one.The scent of his cologne hits me next—spiced cedar and clean soap—and just like that, I’m back in that hallway, our last fight ricocheting off the walls. The things he said. The way he looked at me, like I was nothing.
Nick always knew how to dress the part—clean lines, expensive fabric, perfect posture. A walking LinkedIn profile with a six-pack. He wore suits like armor and sincerity like a costume.
He has this polite, practiced charm—the kind that makes waiters like him and makes women feel lucky when he picks them out of a room. At first.
Dark brown hair, always perfectly in place. That smile is warm enough to disarm a girl but never quite makes it to his eyes. I used to think I imagined that, but now that I don’t see him with rose-tinted glasses, it’s easier to tell when he’s checked out of a situation.
His gaze drops to me.
“Of all the people,” he grumbles.
I blink up at him, and my heart races in my chest.
“Nick,” I choke out. “Hi.”
Hi? Really?
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking in his cheek.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, looking me up and down and scrunching up his nose like I’ve tracked in mud. Or shit.
