My Accidental Sugar Daddy
Cassandra Dee
Copyright © 2021 by Cassandra Dee
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To all the girls who’ve fallen for their dirty sugar daddy when they weren’t supposed to.
This one’s for you!
Also By Cassandra Dee and Friends
The Forbidden Fun Series
My Mom’s Fiancé
My Mom’s Husband
My Sister’s Husband
My Son’s Girlfriend
My Best Friend’s Dad
My Neighbor’s Husband
My Best Friend’s Husband
My Brother’s Teammates
My Fiancé’s Twin Brothers
The Neighbor Next Door
My Dad’s College Friends
My Bully’s Dad
My Sister’s Boyfriend
The Billionaire’s Pet
The Soldier Next Door
My Boss’s Father
The Frat Boys Next Door
My Dad’s Business Partner
My Boss’s Husband
My Bestie’s Dad
Pregnant By 2 Men
My Filthy Father In Law
Daddy In Waiting
My Stepmom’s Boyfriend
Unexpected Daddy
Fake Daddy To Be
The Baddest Bad Boy
The Sweetest Revenge
Hot Single Daddy
My Accidental Sugar Daddy
Pregnant By My Stepbrother
My Boyfriend’s Brother
My Mom’s Ex-Husband
Daddy’s Prize
My Boyfriend’s Dad
Big Bad Boss Daddy
The Falling Series
Falling for My Dad’s Best Friend
Falling for My Boyfriend’s Dad
Falling for My Son’s Best Friend
Falling for My Beautiful Ward
The Double Series
Double Dare
Double Exposure
Double Love
Double Desire
Double Trouble
Double Candy Canes
The Dirty Series
The Dirty Hotel King
My Friend’s Dirty Uncle
My Dirty Professor
The Dirty Headmaster
Sold to Him
His Filthy Game
The Dirty Set-Up
The Billionaires Club
Sold at the Auction
Serving Him
Buy Me
Virgin for Sale
Anonymous Encounters
The #BABYCRAZY Series
#BABYMACHINE
#BABYMAKER
#BABYFEVER
#BABYCRAZY
In Love with Menage
All the Best Men
Their Secret
It’s a Deal
Just One Night
Just One Night, Vol 1
Just One Night, Vol 2
Just One Night, Vol 3
Just One Night, Vol 4
The Manning Brothers
Just One More
Just One Inch
Just Two Much
Just The Tip
The Dial-A-Date Series
The President My Lover
Client No. 6
Bad Cop
Reverse Harem
Seven Brothers of Sin
Six Ways to Sin
Three Rockstars of Sin
Shared
Shared, Vol. 1
Shared, Vol. 2
Shared, Vol. 3
Shared, Vol. 4
The Claiming Her Series
Claiming Her In The Ring
Claiming Her In The Pool
Claiming Her At The Bar
Claiming Her As A Daddy
Claiming Her In the Forest
The Boss Series
My Boyfriend’s Boss
Pregnant by My Boss
Pregnant by the CEO
Pregnant by the Billionaire
The His Series
His Captive
His Woman
His Love
His Christmas Gift
Daddy Academy
Daddy Academy
Daddy Academy 2
Daddy Academy 3
Standalones
Don’t Fall For Me
Tie Me Up Daddy
Paying My Boyfriend’s Debt
Beg Me
Prison Fling
Cocky AF
Iron Soldier
Buck Me Cowboy
Small Town Secrets
The President and the Starlet
His Baby
Buying a Bride
The Billionaire’s Kitten
Closer
Loving the Babysitter
Daddy’s Rich Enemy
Daddy’s Pretty Baby
Contents
About This Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Sneak Peek: Hot Single Daddy
Sneak Peek: Buck Me Cowboy
About This Book
Laurelin: I work with the homeless, so I dress modestly. Okay, it’s not just modest – I look like a ragamuffin with my patched jeans and torn t-shirts, not to mention the soiled backpack at my feet. But imagine my surprise when a rich, handsome man mistakes me for a homeless girl and offers to let me stay with him … for a price, that is.
* * *
Tate: I’m not a charitable man, but when I saw the blonde scrounging for food, my instincts kicked into high gear. No one that beautiful should be out on the street, and I offered Laurie a place to stay. What she didn’t realize is that her particular safe space is in my bed … and that she’ll be paying rent with those luscious curves as her belly grows big with my baby!
* * *
Hey Readers – We’re back with a follow-up to Fake Daddy To Be, but this time the story’s about Laurelin, Channing Saint’s know-it-all little sister. Yes, Laurelin has her heart in the right place, but the problem is that Tate’s interested in more than her heart – he’s interested in that sassy body too. Get ready for a wild ride because the CEO always gets what he wants and this time, he’s willing to pay *any* price. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and always a HEA for my readers. You’ll love the story, I promise! Xoxo, Cassie
1
Laurelin
* * *
“Laurelin? Laurelin, your damn cat is eating my ficus again!”
I raise my head at the sound of my name. But as Rachel’s words penetrate the fog of my brain, I stuff my face back into my pillow. The ficus will be fine. If I don’t get another half-hour of sleep, I won’t be fine at all.
I love my roommie, I really do. I even, begrudgingly, love her ficus, and the myriad of other plants housed in our shabby walk-up apartment. After all, Rach and I have been friends since college, which feels like ancient history but actually was only about seven or eight years ago. We’ve had a hand
ful of other roommates since, but Rach and I found ourselves living together again when her ex dumped her last year.
But the second I start to drift back to sleep, the radiator turns on. Blissful silence is replaced by a horrible cacophony of clanking and clunking above my head. Why does that even happen? I thought radiators sent steam through metal pipes, so what’s causing the awful banging sound? I groan, trying to wedge flimsy foam plugs even deeper into my ears. Maybe Rachel and I should have tried a little harder to find a better place. After all, it’s not like this was the best I can afford…
But then I shake my head to banish the thought. The last thing I want to do is rely on my family’s fortune. Even though my current apartment sucks, it’s a hell of a lot comfier and cozier than a spartan, personality-less penthouse somewhere downtown. That’s just not my scene.
I take a deep breath and try to cultivate some gratitude for my crappy—I mean, homey—apartment. So many people have so much less, I remind myself. So many people would think this was a dream.
And then I remember the sandwiches.
“Dammit,” I groan into my satin pillowcase. “Shit!”
“Laurie!” Rachel pounds on my door frame. “Ficuses are poisonous to cats! You better get out here quick before something horrible happens!”
“I’m getting up,” I groan. “I’ll be there in a sec, I promise.”
My body and mind both protest the movement, but I manage to roll out of bed and into a barely bipedal stance. I grab a scrunchie from my night stand and plop my long blonde hair into a bun on top of my head. Then, I throw my fluffy white robe on, covering the raggedy t-shirt and shorts that I call pajamas, and fling open my bedroom door.
Sure enough, Toodles is perched on top of the kitchen table, gnawing happily away on the ficus at issue. Rachel is pouring herself a cup of tea and casts me a beseeching look.
“I kept shooing him away but he keeps going back,” she complains.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble around a yawn. I am nowhere near a morning person, and shuffling towards the kitchen table, I put my arms out. Toodles jumps happily into them and immediately begins purring as I cradle him to my chest, kissing him on the sides of his little grey face. I’ve had Toodles for about three years now, and am perfectly content as a crazy cat lady. Rachel is definitely more of a dog person.
“Do you want some tea?” my roomie asks, shaking her head. “Or maybe Toodles wants some tea?”
I smile at her gratefully. We can never stay annoyed at each other for long. Our friendship wouldn’t have lasted this long if that weren’t the case.
“Maybe just a half a cup, and yes, Toodles appreciates your kind offer but he says no to tea,” I say. “Besides, I have to get to the park soon because Marla will be waiting, and you know how she gets uppity if you’re more than a few minutes late.”
“How is Marla these days?” Rachel asks, getting out my favorite floral mug from the cupboard.
“She was doing well last time, at least,” I say, scratching the top of Toodles’ head as he purrs like a motor. “I think she’s staying at that bigger shelter on the east side of Manhattan now. She looked good.”
“I’m glad,” Rachel says, handing me the mug. “I worry about her sometimes. Okay, more than sometimes. A lot.”
I sigh and take a sip of hot jasmine tea, letting its warmth wake me up a little. “I do too. I worry about all of them. But Marla’s in her early 70’s now, you know? It’s just so sad that she doesn’t have anyone to take care of her and that we’re practically her best friends.”
Rachel smiles sadly. “I know. But I’m sure she’s glad to have you around.” She gathers up her mug and her journal that was on the counter. “I’m going to go do some writing in my room. Tell everyone I say hi, and I’ll go with you next time.”
“Will do,” I promise, nodding.
I set Toodles down on the ground and head to the bathroom for a quick shower. I’ve gone to hand out sandwiches in the park every other Sunday for about five months now, and yet I still haven’t quite adjusted to the routine. I make about twenty sandwiches the night before and pack two old backpacks, one with the food and one with bottles of water. Still, I’m such a heavy sleeper that when Sunday morning rolls around, it takes quite a bit for me to mobilize. Sometimes Rach comes with me, but other times, she prefers to stay in. I don’t blame her because working with the homeless can be heartrending, and sometimes the best thing you can do to protect your mental health is to take a break. That’s what Rach is doing today, and it’s okay. I know the park inside out, and it’s safe. I’ll be fine.
In the shower, I decide that today’s not a hair-washing day, and definitely not a leg-shaving day. When I get out, I don’t even put on any makeup, just a little bit of Chapstick. Who’s going to be eyeballing me, anyways? I’m just going to the park to try to be helpful.
With Toodles twining around my legs, trying to trip me, I go into my room to pick out my clothes. I used to dress nicely for the occasion, thinking that maybe people would be more willing to approach me if I looked respectable. But I soon realized that the people I wanted to help wouldn’t notice due to much more serious problems. In fact, when I dressed up, I looked out of place and awkward. As a result, I dress down now, and seem to have found a groove. People know me, and I genuinely enjoy speaking with my new friends. I want to make a difference, and clothes don’t matter at this point.
As a result, I change into a pair of old jeans and an oversized flannel shirt. The jeans have holes in both knees, as well as a weird tear on the back of one thigh, and the flannel shirt is a muddy green color which has definitely seen better days. In fact, I spilled OJ on the shirt about three months ago, and the orange combined with the green to form a weird coffee-colored stain right on the belly area. It’s not too bad though. If I tuck the shirt in, no one will notice the stain, I think.
Then, I pull my hair into a French braid and pause. Perfect. I examine my appearance in the mirror with satisfaction. I’m a little pale, but that’s what you get for being blonde, and aren’t bags under your eyes très chic these days? Grunge is back, right? Smiling, I grab my two backpacks and call to my roomie.
“I’m headed to the park! I’ll see you later, Rach!”
My bestie says something in a muffled voice from her room which sounds like, “Oof, Toodles!” and I quickly leave the apartment. My roommate’s probably gotten into another scuffle with my cat, and I want no part of it, otherwise I’m going to be even more late than I am now. With a smile, I clatter down the stairwell of our apartment building and step into the brisk, bright New York air before breathing deeply. I’m doing good, and honestly? I can already tell it’s going to be a wonderful day.
2
Laurelin
* * *
Every born-and-bred New Yorker has a favorite city park. Central Park? It’s great, but so big! Prospect Park? It’s too far away for someone who lives in Manhattan. Instead, there are so many quaint areas of greenery, sculptures, benches, and people-watching throughout the many boroughs of the city that it’s honestly difficult to choose.
But Tompkins Square Park just might be my favorite. It’s only a few blocks from where Rachel and I live, for one, and like most New Yorkers, I’m very neighborhood-oriented. If I can walk there, then I’m more likely to go. Plus, I love the patches of flowers, the many elm trees, and the assorted bands playing gigs, not to mention the Halloween doggy-costume contest that takes place every year. Only in quirky, funny Tompkins would that happen. It’s the quintessential outdoor East Village hangout.
What’s harder to watch, though, are the groups of homeless people sleeping on benches or on the grass. Sometimes it seems like the number of homeless people in the park is increasing; sometimes the Mayor cracks down on the issue, and the numbers, at least temporarily, seem to dwindle. There are a couple of mainstays, though. For them, and for those who are just wandering through, I bring the sandwiches.
The weather is lovely today, warm and sunny but
not unbearably hot, as summer in the city can so often be. Kids are running and playing; there are even a few people playing ping-pong on the concrete table in back. My heart leaps as a young family walks by, a tiny, perfectly pink baby nuzzled to her mother’s chest. I definitely have a serious case of baby fever, and every infant I see increases it tenfold. I almost stop and say something, just for an excuse to look at that precious bundle, but force myself to keep walking. I have work to do.
This is, after all, the only “work” I have these days. I graduated with a degree in Art History from NYU and quickly got a job at a contemporary gallery. I enjoyed it, for a while, because it felt glamorous to dress up every day and sell priceless pieces of art. I felt important, hobnobbing with billionaires and attending shi-shi art auctions at Christie’s and Sotheby’s. However, when my mom passed away suddenly last year, my daily routine became too stale to digest. What was the point of showing pretty pictures to rich people every day? What was I doing with my life that actually mattered? If I were to pass away unexpectedly, what would my obituary say? “Pretty blonde from a rich family. Will be missed. The end.”
The answer, I decided, was to quit.
So I gave it up. I abandoned my cushy job, my gorgeous apartment, and any remaining ties to my socialite status. I haven’t had a job since then and spend a lot of time in my apartment with Rachel and Toodles. Financially, I’m fine because I have a trust fund. The Saint family made their bucks producing movies, and my brother, Channing, runs the empire these days. He doesn’t need my help.