Page 57 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

Relief floods so hard my knees nearly buckle. I step forward and gently take her hands. “Deal. Words first. Fists reserved strictly for end-of-the-world, apocalypse situations.”

She sniffles. “More jokes? Be still, my beating heart.”

I grin and make a silent vow to myself. No more slipups.I’ll be the man she can trust—no surprises, no fights, nothing to tarnish her family’s reputation.

Down the hall, Mrs. Markoff clears her throat. “Anya, Hunter? Need taste testers for the glaze.” Her tone is warm—an invitation. Another olive branch.

Anya squeezes my fingers. We walk back toward the kitchen together, my heart hammering. As Anya tastes the lemon glaze, her mother gives me a smile and a slight nod as she mouths, “Thank you.”

Having never experienced my own mother’s approval, Mrs. Markoff’s does something to me. It hits hard, square in my chest, and it feels like something I’ve needed for a long, long time.

I swallow, unsure what to say. But then Anya passes me a spoon to taste the glaze. Sour with just the right amount of sweet. “It’s perfect.”

24

THEO

The cottage feelslike a ship that’s listed after a squall—upright, technically seaworthy, but every cup and picture frame rattles with each ripple of motion. Calvin’s Maserati shout has receded, yet embarrassment echoes in the floorboards and in the quick glances Mr. and Mrs. Markoff trade whenever shoe leather so much as squeaks. I catch Anya smoothing her skirt every few moments, as though wrinkled fabric might broadcast scandal to someone through the blinds.

I have held court in boardrooms across the country, but I have never seen a more tense trio than these three.

Time to steer the vessel back on course. “It seems we all need fortification,” I announce, pitching my tone to that of a friendly captain. “Anya, you once extolled a local treasure called Dragon Cove. Best Chinese on the eastern seaboard, I believe you claimed?”

She blinks, lips parting in surprise at the memory. “Oh—yeah. Sesame noodles worth the calories.”

“Sounds like heresy, considering Boston’s stellar Chinese food, so we should do a taste test,” I reply, drawing my phone like a waiter’s notepad. “May I treat everyone to supper?” My gaze lands on Mrs. Markoff for parental sign-off.

Her eyes dart to her husband’s. He gives a tight nod. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Excellent.” I slide into procurement mode to sort out the orders—voice polished enough to make any CFO weep. “A double order of sesame noodles, assorted dumplings, General Tso’s chicken, mapo tofu.” Hunter, hovering near the pantry, pantomimescrab rangoonby mimicking a crab walk with his hand and wrapping a dumpling. It’s hard not to roll my eyes, but the mimicry is impressive and, most importantly, it makes Anya laugh, so I oblige.

When Dragon Cove confirms a forty-minute delivery window, I pivot to logistics. The dining table is already stretched to its maximum length. Two leaves were loaded this morning for tomorrow’s influx of cousins. Extra space yawns between place settings like a chasm, emphasizing our low numbers—six diners flanked by eight empty chairs. Every unoccupied seat is a reminder that gossip-hungry relatives are inbound, primed for fireworks that might outshine the town display.

I help Mr. Markoff retrieve additional plates—he insists on using the “good set” because neighbors will doubtless peek through windows after today’s show. The clatter of china fills the silence that Calvin’s exit tore open.

Meanwhile, Hunter manages to charm Mrs. Markoff by volunteering to slice fruit for dessert. She hovers, obviously pleased that the man who decked Calvin is now obediently trimming strawberries into neat hearts. Gage returns from thebackyard, damp with residual sweat but calm, and quietly offers to brew fresh sweet tea. His earlier fence diplomacy clearly earned a sliver of paternal trust. Mr. Markoff grants him a brusque “thank you” rather than a bark.

Divide and conquer, Caesar had said. Turns out, he was right.

Despite these small wins, tension remains taut. Every time a passing car slows, Mrs. Markoff’s shoulders stiffen. Anya alternates between nibbling her thumbnail and darting worried glances at the curtained windows. Hunter notices and shifts his jokes to a lower setting. I file the observation away—public opinion here weighs heavier than I’d thought.

I hate that Calvin disturbed the peace of Castle Beach. This place was supposed to be a warm sanctuary for Anya. When a rough engine revs down the street, she freezes up, and it hurts to see that. She doesn’t deserve this. None of them do.

When the delivery driver arrives—a lanky teenager whose arm tattoos are still shiny—we unload cartons onto the sideboard. The aroma of ginger, soy, and fried wontons briefly smothers anxiety. Places are set around the long table—Anya and her parents at one end; Gage, Hunter, and me staggered opposite to balance. The vacant chairs create awkward negative space, but I seat us without comment, hoping structure breeds calm.

Conversation stays tinder-dry, punctuated by the clink of chopsticks. Mrs. Markoff refills Hunter’s tea glass before anyone else’s, praising his “good strong hands” for slicing berries. He thanks her with uncharacteristic meekness. It seems her praise affects him deeply.

Two seats down, I watch Mr. Markoff spear a strip of pepper steak, brow still furrowed from the afternoon’s upheaval. Acrossthe table, Gage patiently coaxes a tangle of lo mein onto his chopsticks, every inch the composed eldest brother. Between bites, Mr. Markoff nods toward him.

“Gage,” he says, voice gruff, “that fence joint you cut—cleanest mortise I’ve seen outside a mill shop. Where’d you learn that?”

Gage dabs his mouth with a napkin, then meets his eyes. “Couple of ways, sir. Our grandfather ran a cattle ranch in West Texas—every summer, he made us rebuild half the perimeter. The post-hole digger gave me my first set of callouses.”

Mr. Markoff grunts, impressed. “Ranch work teaches true measurements. But that angled brace you set? That’s carpenter thinking.”

“Picked that up later. For a while, I flipped properties on the side. I like to work with my hands, but there aren’t any cattle ranches in Boston.” They share a chuckle. “Winters warp porch rails faster than a bad politician warps promises, and when you get tired of paying contractors to fix things crooked, you open a woodworking textbook and do it yourself.”

Anya’s father nods slowly, the stern lines around his eyes easing. “Respect,” he says, tapping his chopsticks once on the plate. “Quality lumber deserves hands that understand grain.”