Page 54 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

The blade stops mid-cut. Silence roars louder than power tools. It vibrates in my chest, terrifying. Not as terrifying as the look on his face, though. The man looks like a human lie detector. It’s just as well. The truth is the best defense, so they say.

I take a breath and admit what’s been on my mind for a while now. “I do. Probably more than I should, for as fast as this has all happened. But she was in my heart long before her breakup with Calvin. Same with Hunter and Theo.”

“She cheated with you three?”

“No, nothing like that. We admired her from afar. She is blameless in this.”

He meets my eyes. For a moment, I’m thirteen again, caught sneaking out, awaiting the verdict. Yet his gaze is not condemnation—more like a jeweler appraising clarity. A slow nod. “Love can be messy. But lies are worse.” His accent thickens in consonants. “Calvin lied. Do not lie to her.”

“Never.” I slide the trimmed picket into place. We nail it rhythmically—thwack-thwack—fixing my vow into cedar.

“Still,” he continues, voice cautious, “I cannot pretend to like this. My faith, my upbringing—this arrangement…” He sighs. “But I disliked Calvin. He kept her away from family. A man should honor his woman’s roots.” He gestures toward the house. “You brought her back. This I respect.”

Sweat drips from my temple. I clear sawdust off a post cap. “She wanted to see her family. We’d never stand in the way of that.”

He peers along the fence line—posts true, rails straight, pickets even. “You show respect in craft, at least.” A flicker of wryness. “But after the weekend, maybe she will stay here. More stable.” He tests a picket with a shake—firm. “Why return to Boston? No job, no home, only bad memories.”

I swallow. “I intend to change all of that. We have businesses and properties, and can set her up with a good life on her own terms. If she doesn’t want us one day, the job and the home are still hers. That’s nonnegotiable. If she comes back to Boston, she will never have to depend on another man again.”

His brow rises. “You sound like she does not know this.”

“Not yet. I don’t want to pressure her about coming back to Boston, so I planned to wait to bring it up until she makes it clear where she wants to be.”

He considers, then sticks out his gloved hand. “I will hold you to your word, Gage Carver.”

I clasp it—grip steady, cedar scent strong. He squeezes once, releases. One last picket slides into place. We nail it, tie off the string. Fence stands solid—no waver, no gap.

Inside the house through the window, I see only Mrs. Markoff in a floury apron and Anya setting out pitchers of sweet tea. Where are Hunter and Theo? If they fuck this up?—

“The fence is good.” He leans on the hammer, breathing deep.

“Sturdy,” I echo, brushing sawdust off the level. “And I’ll make sure the life we build around Anya is just as square.”

“Square is fine. Strong is better.”

“I’d sayhappyis best. That’s what we offer Anya.”

He gives a short nod before we head for the porch to get a better look at our handiwork. We made a good team—hopefully that goes a long way to earning his support. He gives me the impression that he’s not the flexible type, but I’m not a quitter. The fence looks good—barring hurricanes, it’ll last for years. Maybe longer.

A growing part of me hopes the same can be said for the four of us.

The salt wind tugs at my T-shirt, and the seagulls wheel overhead. I run through the next steps in my mind. Figure out what kind of job we can offer her. Locate one of our apartments near her favorite museum or café. We need to be able to give her reasons to come back to Boston.

The comforts of Castle Beach might feel like what she needs after Calvin’s bullshit. I won’t argue if she wants to stay. I’ll only provide options and do my damnedest to make them appealing. Calvin did everything in his power to eliminate her options, and I will never fucking do that to her.

I want to give her the world.

23

HUNTER

I’mup to my elbows in suds, singing—badly—into a wooden spoon while Mrs. Markoff cackles like the birds circling outside. Her kitchen smells of hickory smoke, pie crust, and something sweet Anya calls “cousin-crack bars”—a pretzel, peanut butter, chocolate and marshmallow concoction that will ruin my macros for a week. Theo stands beside me in rolled-up sleeves, rinsing casserole dishes with surgical precision. I keep squirting extra soap just to watch him sigh.

Anya leans against the doorframe, cheeks still pink from fielding about twenty delicate questions from her mom, who’s now “just stepping out” every five minutes to “check the smoker” but really to text updates to whichever neighbor is next in the gossip relay. I catch Anya’s eye and send her a slow, ridiculous wink. She rolls hers eyes—and smiles. God, that smile. I’d wash a thousand deviled-egg platters for it.

Mrs. Markoff sets a stack of mixing bowls on the counter, wiping her flour-dusted hands. “You boys work faster than my stand mixer. Lots of hands make light work, I suppose. I can see why Anya needs more than one.”

“Mom!” Anya’s squeak is the cutest thing I have ever heard. Her face goes cherry-tomato red, her hands flailing. She looks mortified enough to dive headfirst into the dishwasher.