Page 20 of My Ex’s Billionaire Brothers (Forbidden Hearts #5)

HUNTER

The cabin’s kitchen smells like scorched sugar and optimism gone wrong.

My fault—I’m the one who decided to “toast” frozen waffles directly over a gas flame because the relic of a toaster in this place keeps belching smoke like a dragon with heartburn.

Theo supervises with his usual surgical calm, sliding each waffle onto a plate like he’s presenting petit fours at a charity gala.

He’s a chef stuck in the body of a boardroom-bound stuffed shirt. Tragic.

We set up brunch on the coffee table in front of the crackling fireplace: golden waffles—okay, some are charcoal black on the edges—a Mason jar of homemade strawberry jam left by the owner, and coffee so strong it could strip paint.

Theo discovered ground beans in the freezer and brewed a pot that smells like jet fuel because caffeine is the only acceptable drug before ninea.m. Allegedly.

“Bonappétit,” Theo says, handing me my plate with a little flourish.

“Oh, très fancy,” I reply, giving my waffle a mock inspection. “Burnt on the outside, frozen in the middle—Michelin-star cuisine, right here.”

Theo’s lips twitch. He sits cross-legged on the rug, straight-backed as if he’s worried slouching might dent his reputation. I flop onto a cushion beside him and drip jam like crimson paint across my plate.

We dig in, and the sugar hit is immediate. I needed this after last night—that girl wore me out. Warmth from the fire seeps into my muscles. For ten sweet minutes, reality stays outside—no broken SUV, no Calvin, no worries. Just two brothers and caffeine-fueled sugar rushes.

I lean back against the sofa. “Remember those Fourth of Julys at the estate? The humongous barbecue pit, the cousins shooting bottle rockets at each other?—”

“And you,” Theo interjects, wiping jam from his knuckles, “attempting to deep-fry marshmallows by skewering them on actual Roman candles. I believe your eyebrows were singed for months.”

“Worth it,” I say, grinning. “Gave me that rakish, half-brow look all the girls love.”

Theo snorts. “You looked like a startled goat.”

I goose-honk a laugh and swallow coffee, letting it scorch away the sugar coating my tongue. “Didn’t Mom try to host a ‘civilized’ picnic one year? Gingham tablecloths and cucumber sandwiches?”

“And the second Gage lit the first firecracker,” Theo supplies, “the ladies fled inside, stilettos stuck in the turf. That was the year Cousin Miles launched a cake of mortars sideways across the croquet lawn.”

“Ah, family bonding,” I sigh, mock-wistful.

The cabin door swings open, admitting a gust of brisk mountain air and two people who very much look like they’ve spent their dawn hours violating zoning ordinances of public decency.

Gage’s silver hair is tousled, pajama shirt mis-buttoned.

Anya’s cheeks glow pink, eyes sparkling.

There’s a softness to her expression I’ve never seen on her before—like she’s drunk on secrets she’s happy to keep.

She’s wearing only her sleep shirt and a blanket draped loosely on her shoulders.

And weirdly, I don’t feel an ounce of jealousy.

Not a single stab. My chest does a weird little aww flutter instead.

Guess sharing isn’t so bad when it’s the right person with the right people.

Besides, we’ve always been a team. The three oldest outcasts of the family versus the world. Been that way since we were kids.

Sunlight knifes in behind her, catching hints of gold in her wavy brown hair.

She brushes a stray strand behind her ear.

My heart heaves a happy sigh at the sight.

Anya is no dainty porcelain doll—she’s sturdy, curves that say hug me, trust me, there’s warmth here.

Blue eyes bright, a spray of freckles across her nose.

I think she usually hides those with makeup, and that should be a crime per the Geneva Convention.

They’re fucking adorable, just like the rest of her.

And those lips, slightly swollen from kissing, curve into a shy smile that could launch a thousand regrettable text messages if I let it.

“Morning,” I singsong, raising my coffee mug in salute. “How’s the great outdoors?”

Gage grunts in reply, clearly attempting a stoic facade. Spoiler—he fails. The way his hand lingers on the small of Anya’s back gives him away. Theo quirks an eyebrow at their disheveled entrance but refrains from commentary. His usual mode.

Anya grabs a plate. “Are those waffles?” Her voice is still husky with sleep or maybe other activities. She spoons jam onto a golden square, eyes widening in appreciation. “These look amazing.”

I snort. “Flattery won’t fix the raw center, sweetheart, but keep it up.”

Gage rakes a jam-dripping waffle onto his plate, throws me a look. “Better than protein powder oatmeal, Hunter. Be grateful.”

“Not according to my nutritionist.” I raise my hands in surrender when he gives me that look. The one that says, I’m older and I know better than that quack . I’m used to his looks by now. With a shrug, I add, “I’m just saying, if Michelin ever starts rating cabins, we might get one tire.”

Anya settles beside me on the floor, cross-legged, plate balanced on her knee. Her shoulder brushes mine, and the contact is sweet as maple syrup. I sense Gage’s gaze flick toward us, not wary, just affectionate. No jealousy, no territorial tension. It’s strangely perfect.

We munch for a bit in cozy silence until Theo clears his throat. “Hunter was regaling me with stories about his father,” he says as he glances at Anya, an invitation.

She perks up. “Oh? Actually, I’ve always wondered about that. Hunter, you don’t look much like Theo or Gage—or any of the other brothers, really.” She dips a waffle corner in jam. “I assumed some of you might be adopted, but I didn’t want to pry at Christmas dinner. It seemed rude.”

I dab jam from my lip with a napkin. “Not adopted—just a living family tree compiled by Mother’s…shall we say, adventurous spirit.”

“Your mother?” Anya tilts her head. “Adventurous?”

Theo sets his plate aside, folding his long fingers. “Our mother has always desired a daughter. After Gage’s father passed away, she remarried quickly, hoping to conceive one. Instead”—he gestures to me—“she had Hunter.”

I grin, salute with my fork. “Hi.”

Gage picks up the tale, wiping jam from his thumb. “She tried again with another man. No daughter. Then came an affair with the gardener”—he tilts his head toward Theo—“which produced her third son.”

Theo inclines his head with mock solemnity. “My arrival precipitated a divorce; my coloring didn’t match Hunter’s father’s at all, and he had the gall to be upset about it.”

Anya’s jaw drops. “That’s…bold.”

The shock on her face is priceless, so I continue the family lesson. “Oh, she kept going,” I say, brandishing a waffle quarter for emphasis. “Married again, another affair. Eight boys total, each with a different father. She finally gave up on the daughter thing—adopted two Persian cats instead.”

“Pure white,” Theo adds, smirking. “Named them Cash and Credit. I am certain she loved them more than any of us.”

Anya stifles a giggle behind her hand. “That’s hardly old-fashioned.”

“Exactly why Mother got iced out of society luncheons for a spell,” Gage says. “But money and time heal scandal. Eventually, the invitations flowed again.”

She chews thoughtfully. “Is that why Calvin obsesses over appearances? He’s afraid people will judge your family’s…complex tree?”

“Less a tree, more a forest,” I interject, earning her giggle.

Theo nods. “Calvin’s father is uncertain—massage therapist or tennis coach, depending on which rumor you believe. Calvin compensates by curating a flawless public persona. An unknown father and morally slippery mother do not suit his senatorial ambitions.”

Anya dabs a crumb from her lip. “That explains a lot.” Her gaze drops. “Including why he looked for a ‘perfect’ fiancée he could mold.”

Gage’s jaw flexes. I place a steady hand on his arm before he can mutter something scathing about our younger brother. The tension eases, and I feel a weird swell of affection for both Gage and Theo.

It’s hard not to rail on about Calvin after what he did to Anya, and what he’s always done to us.

No one in the family is ever good enough for Calvin’s ambitions, and according to him the three of us are the worst, despite our billionaire status.

But fuck him—I’m not giving him more thought than I have to.

We all fall quiet, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and clink of forks.

To break the silence, I clink my coffee mug against Theo’s glass of water. “Toast!” I declare, voice bright. “To scandalous mothers, eight half brothers, and one gorgeous woman who’s infinitely more interesting than the entire Senate.”

Anya flushes crimson, but her smile lights the room. Gage taps his mug to mine. Theo exhales a soft laugh and follows suit. We drink—coffee, water, whatever’s left—and finish the last waffle crumbs.

As dishes clatter into the sink, my mind churns.

I want to offer Anya a place to stay in Boston—my loft has an extra bedroom—and I can always find her a job at my marketing firm.

She deserves security, independence from Calvin’s money.

But I can’t ambush my brothers with that plan. We need a united front.

Gage wipes the counter. “We should check in with the mechanic, see if he actually ordered the part.”

Theo nods. “Agreed. And perhaps verify the cabin’s Wi-Fi so I can clear remote work.”

Anya collects empty mugs, humming softly. She looks at me, and I swear time hiccups. Her lips are strawberry-stained, and I’m dying to lick them clean. She’s all warmth and bravery bundled into one tasty package. My heart squeezes.

Careful, Hunter. You’re on the cliff’s edge.

Again.

I cock a brow at Theo, throwing on my jesting mask. “Ready for operation Hide the Evidence? Because if Mom ever hears we served burnt waffles to a guest, she’ll revoke your trust fund.”

He sniffs. “My fund is unassailable.”

“Hmm.” I rub my chin theatrically. “But is it syrup-proof?”

Gage groans. “You two are hopeless.”

Anya laughs—an unguarded, melodic sound. It clangs against my ribs like a tuning fork. I want to bottle that laugh, play it whenever I doubt myself. One day she’ll need a job, a place to land. I can give her both. I just need to convince the mastermind duo first.

I sling an arm around Theo’s shoulders, steering him toward the living area. “Brother conference soon?” I whisper. His eyebrow arches, but he nods.

Gage loads the dishwasher with more aggression than necessary. I pat his shoulder. “Truce, big guy. We’ll fix the SUV, we’ll face Calvin. And maybe we’ll upgrade our waffle game.”

He smirks. “I suppose.”

Anya emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands. “I like burnt waffles,” she declares, chin tilted. “Adds character.”

Gage’s eyes soften, and Theo offers a wry bow. I clap dramatically. “We can rebrand burnt waffles as artisanal caramelized crunch cakes.”

She laughs again, radiant. My chest swells to the point of ache. Yeah—I’ve definitely toppled off the cliff. Now to find a parachute before I hit the ground.