Page 13 of Shared By my Ex's Best Friends
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.
