Page 24 of My Ex’s Billionaire Brothers (Forbidden Hearts #5)

GAGE

The word boyfriends detonates in the Markoff cottage and leaves a hush so deep I can hear the minute hand on the cat wall clock click forward. Time stands still. Blueberry glaze congeals in its bowl. Boiled potatoes for the potato salad steam like the fog of war. None of us moves.

Mrs. Markoff stands frozen at the kitchen island, wooden spoon midair, blue eyes wide behind tortoiseshell readers. But it’s Anya’s father who catches my eye.

Mr. Markoff plants both palms on the back of a dining chair as though bracing for impact.

He’s a tall slab of a man, gray hair cropped Caesar-short, pale blue gaze sharp as sea glass, shoulders still linebacker-broad beneath a decades-old apron.

He scans over the three of us, and I have rarely felt such excessive judgment.

Hunter clears his throat—the sound ricochets. Theo’s brows lift in diplomatic sympathy as he steps aside so no one blocks the exit. Anya chews her bottom lip but holds her ground under parental cross fire.

Her mom’s first word is a small, trembling “Oh.”

That’s my cue. I need to remove her father before both parents marshal reinforcements, and Anya is pinned like a butterfly. “Mr. Markoff,” I begin—voice calm, respectful—“I couldn’t help admiring the new fence posts out back. Fine joinery. Mortise and tenon, yes?”

The surprise jars him from static to motion. He blinks, glances toward the sliding glass door that reveals a run of cedar posts marching across dune grass. “Da—yes. Mortise and tenon.” His accent thickens around the consonants, Russian clipped into a Georgia drawl.

I gesture with open palms. “I’d love to lend a hand before the sun goes down.”

A muscle in his jaw flexes. He looks from me to his wife, who’s fighting for composure behind a teetering stack of deviled-egg platters. The need to move, to do , wins over the need to interrogate. “Gloves by the pantry,” he says, voice still gravelly but grateful. “We can finish the rails today.”

Theo nods once— good diversion. Anya squeezes my elbow in silent thanks, worry sparkling in her blue eyes. I give her a quick nod, then grab some gloves and follow her father out, hoping this goes better than her announcement.

The first time she called us her boyfriends, I grinned at Billy over her head. It was instantaneous, as if my body had been waiting for her to say that word. Stupid of me, I know, but I liked hearing it.

The second time she said it? Well, that could have been handled better, but I’m not mad at it. In fact, I like hearing her call us that. Not that we have any business putting a label on this. For fuck’s sake, it’s just been a few days.

A few life-altering days.

Humidity swallows me the instant we step onto the deck.

Sunbeams bounce off the Atlantic just beyond the house, flashing silver through gaps in palmettos and palm trees.

The half-finished privacy fence traces the property line.

New cedar posts in pinkish-gold, old weather-gray pickets waiting to be replaced.

An upright tool bucket bristles with hammers, drills, galvanized screws.

Two open bags of Quikrete sprawl like burst flour sacks by the gate.

Even in his late fifties, Mr. Markoff moves like a man with zero tolerance for wasted motion—his back straight, grip unrelenting. Up close, he’s got faint crow’s feet, a sun-creased forehead, and clean cedar shavings caught in arm hair the color of late-season rye.

I slide on the gloves. “The grain on these rails is gorgeous—quarter-sawn?”

“From the mill up inland,” he replies, selecting a two-by-four with a critical eye. “Cheaper if you haul it yourself.” I lift the opposite end. We slot it between posts. Sand crunches under his work boots—size thirteen, steel-toed if I had to guess.

He nods for screws. I drive one Brad-point bit whining into fresh wood, head countersinking cleanly.

We switch places, settle into a pattern—lift, level, drive.

The breeze carries briny tang and the distant hush of waves.

Gulls belly-laugh overhead. Five minutes pass with only tool noises and the thud of rails seating into mortises.

On the third board, silence shifts from companionable to charged. He pulls his tape measure back with a metallic snap. “So,” he begins—the single syllable weighty as an anchor—“my daughter has three older boyfriends.” Accent thick, each r rolled slightly. “With the same last name as her fiancé.”

I keep my tone calm. “Yes, sir.”

“Explain this.” He’s not shouting, but the command in his voice could freeze boiling sap. He braces a foot on a lower rail, arms folded—chest broad beneath faded cotton, apron script flecked with sawdust.

I meet his gaze. “The long and the short of it is that our younger brother, Calvin, blindsided Anya with a breakup, an eviction with thirty days’ notice, and no access to shared resources. He also cheated on her.”

He curses under his breath, spitting on the ground. “Big city bastard.”

I nod once. “She had quit her job at his request when they began dating, so he essentially left her stranded with nothing to her name. My brothers and I couldn’t stand by and watch and do nothing…

” I slide another rail onto the line. “We offered a ride here, financial backup, and emotional support. Along the way…” I inhale cedar and salt. “Things escalated.”

He studies my face. “Escalated.”

I set my drill aside. “Sir, your daughter is extraordinary. Compassionate. Clever. Brave. Charming. She deserves better than the transactional affection Calvin showed.” My pulse drums, but my voice stays steady.

“Whatever shape our relationship takes, our primary goal is her safety and happiness. We are ready, willing, and able to help her achieve those things.”

He shifts his weight, considering. Light catches silver in his cropped hair. “You three men—older, experienced—you think this is not dangerous for her heart?” There’s a flare of protectiveness, sharp as a hawk’s cry. I know the look in his eye, because it’s the same as the one in mine.

“No matter how unconventional our situation is, the danger is only if we misuse trust. We won’t. If Anya decides this is over, we’ll step back and leave her with job prospects, an apartment, and a nest egg. You have my word. What Calvin did was despicable. We would never do that to her.”

He picks up the level, checks the bubble, finds it centered—silent approval of both rail and statement.

We secure two more boards without another word exchanged.

I can’t tell if he’s thinking, or too angry to think about it.

The sun begins to sink, sweat beads, cicadas start a lazy rattle in the live oaks.

It’s almost as if the conversation happened only in my mind.

Finally, he sets down his hammer. “Calvin hit her?”

“Never.” I wipe my brow. “Neglect, yes. Manipulation, definitely. But no violence. Calvin isn’t that kind of man.” I pause, considering. “He’s an asshole, but not that kind of asshole.” None of my brothers is that way, or I’d have ended them a long time ago.

He sighs through his nose, tension easing by a hair. He flips a picket, eyeballing grain. “Still, three men. What is…the status? Marriage? Fling? You care for her?”

“Our status is undefined,” I admit. The word hangs precariously. “But our care is not undefined. That part is clear.” Clearer by the minute.

He lays the picket on the sawhorses, marks a trim line. Sawdust sprays as he fires up a cordless circular saw. Over the whir, he asks, “You love her?”

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 say happy is 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.