My Accidental Sugar Daddy

by Cassandra Dee

  My Accidental Sugar Daddy

  Cassandra Dee

  Copyright © 2021 by Cassandra Dee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

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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

  Falling for My Enemy

  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 the Author

  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.