Page 26 of My Ex’s Billionaire Brothers (Forbidden Hearts #5)

THEO

The cottage feels like 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, pantomimes crab rangoon by 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 the backyard, 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. Across the 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.”

Gage inclines his head. “Couldn’t agree more.”

Fewer than thirty words, yet mutual respect cements itself like the concrete they mixed this afternoon.

Anya pushes noodles around her plate, smile pinned but eyes distant. Between that and the hypervigilance, this will not do.

I wait for a lull and then clear my throat gently. “Mrs. Markoff, forgive my impertinence, but these scallion pancakes are exceptional. Any chance Dragon Cove has catered a family reunion in years past?”

Her eyes brighten. “Oh, heavens, yes. Christmas four years ago. I’d had knee surgery, so I couldn’t cook, and we decided Chinese food would be just the thing. But then, Uncle Dan decided everything had to be authentic Szechuan—five-alarm peppers in every dish.”

Anya groans around a dumpling. “Poor Aunt Patty?—”

Mrs. Markoff nods gravely toward Hunter. “Patty’s allergic to capsaicin. Breaks out in hives if a jalapeno so much as winks at her. She spent the whole night dunking her tongue in sweet tea vodka while Dan proclaimed, ‘real flavor builds character.’”

Anya’s father snorts into his rice bowl. “Character building should not require an EpiPen.”

“There were fortune cookies too,” Anya says. “Cousin Everly cracks one open, reads ‘You will soon welcome triplets’ and nearly faints.”

Hunter’s eyes widen theatrically. “Triplets? Is that a fortune or a threat?”

“My exact thought,” Anya chuckles. “Everly spent a week Googling whether fortune cookies can jinx birth control.”

Gage raises his cup. “Any triplets arrive?”

“Just one baby the following spring,” Mr. Markoff says, deadpan. “We told her the other two were delayed in shipping.”

Laughter skitters around the table, more subdued than riotous, but I’ll take it. For a minute, the Chinese take-out boxes and lingering gossip all blur into simple family noise, and the cottage feels steady again. The ship has been righted, as much as it can be for now.

Later, boxes are stacked, dishes rinsed, and the humid evening seeps lavender light through the windows.

I find Anya at the foot of the staircase, a plate of leftover dumplings forgotten in her hand.

The others gravitate toward porch cleanup—Hunter and Mrs. Markoff clearing debris from the porch while Gage discusses tomorrow’s smoker schedule with Anya’s father.

I approach Anya quietly. “Upstairs tour? I haven’t seen the legendary teenage shrine.”

She huffs a laugh. “Legendary for the wrong reasons. Prepare to be traumatized.”

Her childhood bedroom door retains glitter letter stickers proclaiming, “Anya’s Place.

” Inside, walls gleam cotton-candy pink, the exact shade of bubble gum.

A canopy bed awash in rosebud linens squats against one wall, and a trio of porcelain dolls guard a lace-draped vanity.

It smells faintly of vanilla body spray.

“Nothing has changed since I left.”

“Did anyone consult you when they decorated this room?”

She blinks at me. “What makes you think I didn’t do it?”

I huff a laugh, glancing around. “Because you didn’t.”

A strange smile spreads over her lips. “No, Mom didn’t consult me.”

I perch on a wicker desk chair covered in rhinestones. “If you’d been given free rein to design this room, what would it have looked like?”

“Not Barbie’s bachelorette pad. Probably deep teal walls, tapestries, strings of fairy lights. Maybe a flea-market dresser I’d repaint every month. A vintage bed, something weird and chunky and wooden with too much flourish. And I’d paint that to suit my whims…”

“Bohemian,” I muse.

She nods as her gaze skims the porcelain dolls. “And less…whatever this is.”

“Let’s expand the exercise. Imagine you have total autonomy and unlimited potential—where are you living?”

She hesitates, chewing her lip. “A little apartment near the harbor. Exposed brick, big windows. Some plants, I guess.” She glances up. “I kill anything green, though, so maybe that’s a bad idea.”

I catch the hitch. “Plants plural, yet your tone suggests a different wish. What is it you truly want, Anya?”

Her cheeks flush. “A dog. I want a rescue mutt. But I’ve never owned one. Mom always said they were too much chaos in a house this small, and Calvin said they scratch the floors and stink, so it’s a moot point.”

I soften my voice. “His preferences no longer dictate your life. Neither do hers. You are entirely capable of caring for a dog. In business terms, you have plentiful emotional capital and an eager support staff.”

She laughs softly, running fingers over the quilt stitching on the bed. Relief flickers behind her eyes—then dims. “ Temporary support staff. My life’s still a mess. No job, no apartment, gossip storm incoming. I have no business wanting a dog right now.”

This doesn’t have to be temporary. The confession nearly leaps off my tongue, but I bite it back. I have yet to confer fully with Gage and Hunter about strategies—employment, housing assistance. Promising unratified plans would be irresponsible.

Instead, I offer a different truth. “You deserve to live a life configured to your tastes, not someone else’s blueprint.”

Worry still shadows her features. “But tomorrow everyone arrives—cousins, aunts. They’ll compare me to perfect Cousin Laura with her PhD and church-wedding fiancé.

They’ll hear about Calvin’s outburst and Hunter hitting him, neighbors will gossip…

” She plops onto the edge of the mattress, close to tears.

I shift from chair to mattress, sitting beside her. “Look at me. You cannot control small minds. You can control your own narrative—and the people who love you will believe in it.”

Tears brim. “I’m scared their opinions will weigh on my parents.

They’re already nervous. It’s always like this before a holiday.

Mom is so stressed out that the food won’t be perfect, and it always is.

Dad too, that’s why he picked this week of all weeks to rebuild the fence. And I’m here, messing everything up?—”

I touch her chin gently. “The only weight your parents feel now is uncertainty. Show them confidence, they’ll follow.” My thumb brushes a tear from her cheek. Her pink room feels too fragile for this moment—like holding a flower in a minefield.

Her voice cracks. “Confident? I was dumped, I have no prospects of a future, I brought nothing but drama to my parents?—”

I steal a kiss to stop her spiral. Soft enough to tell her she’s safe, and not so intense that I lose the restraint I’ve clung to all day.

She leans in, fingers bundling the front of my shirt, tension draining like air from a balloon.

When we part, she rests her forehead to mine, our breath mingling. She whispers, “What was that for?”

“To remind you that you’re not alone.”

A weak sigh seeps through her parted lips, and before I know it, she grabs my collar and pulls me close for another searing kiss.