Page 180 of Knot Their Starlet

“Leo.”

“Everett.”

“Cam—Cameron.”

The big alpha is obviously incredibly nervous. It’s funny watching him squirm like this, especially considering the circumstances under which we met. I guess he wasn’t lying when he said he liked my dad.

Edison politely asks the guys questions about what they do, but the conversation is a faint buzz at the back of my mind.

There are too many thoughts running through my head.

The tea kettle whistles from the kitchen, and Edison stands to tend to it.

“I can come with you,” I say, pushing myself up to my feet.

“Please,” he says, that same fond smile still there. It hasn’t slipped for a moment.

Beck shifts next to me, looking up, almost like he’s asking me if I’m okay.

I offer him a single reassuring nod. I’m not sure if I can muster a smile right now. I’m so overwhelmed.

“Any preferences?” Edison asks, digging through a drawer full of tea bags.

“No,” I answer with a shake of my head. “My mom told me you were...”

How do I say this without being an asshole?

Because my mom told me a ton of things about the guy, none of which seem true. A deadbeat douchebag abusive asshole wouldn’t be making tea for me and a bunch of guys he doesn’t know, would he?

Even if he were some sort of manipulative narcissist, you’d think he’d be talking more about himself. He certainly has reason to, if the film stills and awards on his walls are any indication.

And I’ve dealt with manipulative narcissists before. He doesn’t feel like one.

Edison is quiet, patiently waiting for me to finish.

“My mom told me you weren’t a good guy,” I finally say.

“I know what she told you,” he says, reaching up and gripping his neck like he’s massaging away an ache.

The sweater he’s wearing blocks my view of it, but I’m almost certain he’s touching the bond marks.

Are they black and twisted like they are on my mom’s skin?

“Is it true?”

“No.” It’s a simple answer without a hint of defensiveness. “But I understand why you might believe it.”

He sets down a mug of warm tea in front of me, meeting my eyes with his own. Eyes that look so similar to mine.

“Our relationship was... complicated. But I want you to know I never stopped loving you. Never stopped waiting for you to come home.” The cords of his neck stick out as he swallows hard. “I fought for custody. For about a dozen years.”

I didn’t know that.

“My mom said... she said...”

“I know what she said,” he repeats gently. “I’m not going to tell you she’s lying because I don’t think it’s that simple. I think she built a version of events that made sense to her. But I can show you the paperwork if you want to see it.”

I blink at him. He knows my mom. Her chaos. The narratives she picks up and runs with.