Page 53 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

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

That’s my cue. I need to remove her father beforebothparents 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, todo, 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 usthat. 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, eachrrolled 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?”