Page 59 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

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. “Temporarysupport 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 toyourtastes, 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 herforehead 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.

25

ANYA

The kiss takesmy breath away. It’s on the verge of becoming something bottomless, but my mind races. It’s too loud, too much. I can’t do this. I cut the cord of warmth before it reels me in, and I break the kiss. “I…I need some air.”

Theo’s pupils are blown and he’s a little breathless. “Of course. I’ll step out?—”

“No, you stay.” I’m on my feet before I know it. “Enjoy the quiet. I’ll be back.”

My heart’s hammering so hard I taste copper, but I slip downstairs while he stays in my pink museum of a bedroom. It’s suffocating. One more second in that space and I’ll cave to the illusion that everything can still fit inside tidy, impossible boxes labeledgood girl,good daughter,good fiancée-turned-free spirit.Boxes that don’t fit three men, an ex-fiancé, and a town that runs on recycled opinions.

Mom hums over pie dough in the kitchen, pushing sugar crust across a glass dish. “Sweetheart, you all right?”

“Just walking off the noodles,” I lie. My sandals dangle from fingertips as I pad barefoot to the front porch. Dad’s voice rumbles out back with Gage’s—still finishing fence talk, no doubt, in low man-tones. I had no idea building a fence was so detailed that they could still be talking about it hours later.

Hunter lounges on the swing nursing sweet tea, but he’s turned away, eyes on the darkening street. Good. Fewer questions to dodge.

I slide through the screen door and down the steps. A warm breeze carries marsh salt and citronella from a neighbor’s tiki torch. Almost dark now, just slips of purple and red light at the edge of the sea. It should smell like childhood safety. Instead, it feels like a funeral viewing for my reputation.

I keep to the sandy shoulder of Seawall Drive. Most beach houses sport the Stars and Stripes in one fashion or another, flags fluttering in anticipation of tomorrow’s parade. Window by window, I sense people inside pausing nightly routines to peer beyond lace curtains. Calvin gave them a show earlier. Now they’re scanning for an encore.

Maybe it’s just my paranoia. Too long in Boston, and I’m thinking everyone in the South has it out for me. It’s silly, if I’m honest with myself. Sure, gossip fuels Castle Beach, but it’s a holiday. These people are going to be busy with family and friends. They don’t have time for gossip.

Hell, Mom barely had time to eat supper. I have no idea how she has the energy to keep making everything by hand the way she does, but I’m so glad that she does. That’s how things are here. People care to make the effort to do things right. It’s something I need to keep in mind whenever I trash this place.

Castle Beach really isn’t so bad. It’s painfully small and most people can’t find it on a map, but it’s quaint and the folks are hardworking, blue-collar types who take pride in their work. I shouldn’t act so ashamed of my hometown.

Two blocks down, Mrs. Baker kneels beside her legendary hydrangeas, trimming browned petals with a surgeon’s focus. It tracks—she was a surgeon before I was born. Once she retired, she insisted everyone call her Mrs. Baker, instead of Dr. Baker. Why she’s trimming her flowers in the dark, I’ll never know. She’s in her eighties now, wearing a cardigan even in July. She was once known for pressing mason-jar lemonade into my hands after school. I lift my fingers in greeting.

She hesitates—wave fluttering like a weak pulse—then drops her gaze back to the flowers, snip-snip. Not even a smile out of her. The motion cuts deeper than any shears. She saw Calvin’s tantrum and Hunter’s slap. Her careful distance screams that I too am being pruned from polite gardens.

Heat floods my cheeks and a weight presses on my sternum.If Mrs. Baker can’t offer lemonade, who will?