“It’s my fault,” Aiden gasped after revealing the existence of Danny’s note in the book. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I covered my mouth with my free hand as the same two words began to pour unchecked from Aiden’s lips. I was about to pull him into my arms when I heard the chair across from us scrape back hard and fast and then Aiden’s father was at his side. He pulled Aiden to his feet and wrapped his arms around his son and Aiden went without a fight.
“It’s not your fault,” Edward said, his voice surprisingly firm. He said it every time Aiden said he was sorry and continued long after Aiden finally fell silent and just cried softly, his face buried in his father’s neck. When he finally stopped saying the words, it was only to tell Aiden he loved him and that everything would be okay.
I had no clue how long they stood there like that for, and I didn’t care. Nor did I care that the few patrons in the shop were sending covert glances our way every now and then. All I cared about was that when Aiden’s soft sobs slowed, then stopped altogether, he still didn’t let go of his father.
And his father didn’t let go of him, either.
Epilogue
AIDEN
Four Months Later
I threw my laptop into my bag and straightened up the remaining paperwork on my desk. It had been an insane few months at work. Once Delphinia, a band called Lackluster, a well-known concert pianist named Marco Filotti, and a fresh-faced boy band named Small Crush had all come on board at the same time, our agency had been on fast-forward trying to keep up.
The independent talent agent who’d brought them all to us had become such an integral part of our team, we’d offered her a job and decided to expand our offerings from just public relations to PR and talent management. Chase was thrilled to head up the PR side and I was having a ball learning talent management from Gina Yoon. She’d already helped me land a singer named Bean and a band called Blowhole, as well as an actress on a daytime soap opera named Clarissa Hart.
As I finished packing up my office to go and meet Ash for a big fundraiser event he was doing, Tomás came barreling into my office.
“Laird is here. He won’t talk to Chase— only you.”
“Shit, Tomás. You know I have to get out of here,” I said with a sigh.
“I know, I told him. He swears it’ll just take a minute. He kinda looks…” he sighed and stared off into the distance.
“Beautiful?” I teased. “Dreamy? Hot? Fuckable?” Tomás fangirled over many of our clients, but in the case of our supermodel client, Laird, Tomás wasn’t alone. We all drooled over him. So much so, that even Ash had joked that if Laird ever seemed interested in fooling around, I was welcome to bring him home as our third. I’d immediately “punished” Ash by edging him over and over right there on the living room couch until he’d finally come so hard that he’d asked “Laird, who?” when I’d brought the issue back up.
“Tomás,” I said, snapping my fingers to get his attention because he was still staring off into the distance.
“What? Sorry!” he said, practically stumbling over himself as he shook his head to dispel whatever naughty dream he’d been having about the beautiful young model. “Yeah, let me get him.”
When Laird entered the room, I motioned to the chair across from my desk, but the young man began pacing back and forth in front of it instead.
“Aiden, thanks for agreeing to see me. I didn’t know who else to ask about this.”
“No problem. What’s going on? Do you want to sit?” I offered, gesturing to my visitor’s chair again. He finally seemed to notice the chair and quickly nodded. Once we were settled, he continued, though he kept shifting on the chair nervously.
“You know about the runway show in Milan, right? The one where I was working for Cocci Borroni?”
“Yes. It was a smash success.”
“For him. It was a smash success for him. For me, it was a nightmare.”
I tried not to roll my eyes in anticipation of hearing a spoiled supermodel tell me he’d been poked by a stray pin while being dressed for the runway. “How?”
“He stole my designs.”
I felt my forehead crease. “What do you mean? You design for him?”
“No. Not at all. I design for me. It’s what I went to school for— what I studied…” His voice dropped off briefly and he averted his eyes as if he was trying to get control of himself. He visibly forced himself to straighten and said, “He must have seen my sketchbook or something because the designs he dressed me in for the show were my own concepts! When I brought it up, he waved me off like it was nothing.”