Daddy’s Fake Fiancée, page 1
Daddy’s Fake Fiancée
Kelly Myers
Copyright © 2021 by Kelly Myers
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.
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Also by Kelly Myers
Daddy Knows Best Series:
My Secret Daddy || Yes Daddy || Forbidden Daddy || Billionaire Daddy
Platinum Security Series:
Dark Kisses || Dark Riches || Dark Sins || Dark Secrets
Forbidden Love Series:
The Guy Next Door || Arrogant Jerk
Big Daddies of Los Angeles Series:
Daddy’s Rules || Daddy’s Temptation
Searching for Love Series:
Frenemies with Benefits || Breaking All The Rules || Fake Heartbreak || Against All Odds
Standalone’s:
Ruthless
Contents
Also by Kelly Myers
Blurb
1. Taylor
2. Chaz
3. Taylor
4. Chaz
5. Taylor
6. Chaz
7. Taylor
8. Chaz
9. Taylor
10. Chaz
11. Taylor
12. Chaz
13. Taylor
14. Chaz
15. Taylor
16. Chaz
17. Taylor
18. Chaz
19. Taylor
20. Chaz
21. Epilogue
22. Excerpt: Daddy’s Temptation
Invitation to join Kelly’s Newsletter
Blurb
He’s an aging actor… a hot aging actor.
And I’d be stupid to decline his tempting offer.
The arrangement is simple… or so it seems.
Chaz needs to be in the public eye to make himself known again.
And what better way to do it than have a young fiancée by his side?
That’s where I come in.
I’ll admit it – the fancy perks are nice.
But the best part about it is being close to him.
Falling for him wasn’t a part of our contract.
And controlling my impulses becomes harder when I see him shirtless.
How is the simple young girl in me supposed to resist an older celebrity like him?
Yes, he’s a playboy.
He’s also been divorced.
And if all that wasn’t enough…
He might have just used me. Big time.
It seems like running away is my only option.
But will I be leaving with my heart intact?
1
Taylor
After another long and grueling day of ballet classes, I walk up the pathway to Sunset Terrace, my apartment complex, and I’m relieved to be home. Ridiculously tall palm trees soar up on either side of me and, once again, I think about how much I love my little apartment.
Like me, most of my neighbors are young and chasing a dream. I live with actors, models, singers and surfers. But me? I’m a dancer. All I want, more than anything in this world, is to be a Prima Ballerina and dance in a prestigious company. So much so that I’m willing to sacrifice every other part of my life. I put my first pair of ballet slippers on at five and I haven’t looked back since.
Now, at 22, after years of dedicated training, I am ready to start my career as a professional dancer and join a company. I’ve auditioned for two so far-- one in San Francisco and the other in San Diego-- and I’ve been on pins and needles waiting to hear back.
It is a huge accomplishment for a dancer to be accepted into a company. Ballet companies are made up in a hierarchical structure. Dance masters, artistic directors and choreographers sit at the top of the structure and the dancers themselves are divided into various levels. When dancers first join the company, they join the corps de ballet. They are the least experienced, appear least often and dance as a group during performances.
As dancers develop and start to command the spotlight, they become soloists. Soloists with a lot of experience and exceptional talent go on to become principal dancers. I am laser-focused on the top tier-- Prima Ballerina, the principal female dancer. It is a title of distinction that is awarded to very few dancers, but I know that I can get there. A title like that carries a great weight and I’ve been working all my life for it.
And nothing will stop me.
I unlock my door and step into my apartment. The walls are decorated with some of my favorite dancing posters from artists like Fabian Perez and Jack Vettriano. I drop my bag on a chair and head straight to the shower. I kick my flip flops off, strip out of my pale pink leotard and drop it in the overflowing hamper. More sweaty laundry to wash, I think. Oh, joy. It’s literally never ending, and I hate doing laundry more than anything. If I don’t scrounge up some quarters soon, my dirty clothes are going to get up and walk away.
I hit the shower and release the tight bun at the nape of my neck. Letting my long red hair down feels good and I massage my temples. Sometimes wearing it up and slicked back so much of the day gives me headaches. But now, I must get ready for the second part of my day, and I get to wear it loose and wild.
Ballet classes aren’t cheap, and neither is living in Hollywood, so I work a few nights a week at a nearby nightclub called Club Noir. For a job, I suppose it’s fun, but sometimes after dancing all day, the last thing I want to do is go dance another three or four hours. But the great thing about it is I get to shed the prim and proper look of a ballerina and embrace the fun, sexy side of me at the hip hop club. Ballet is full of intense and disciplined instruction so letting loose and just embracing the beat can be a nice change of pace.
I step out of the shower, dry off with a towel and then slip on a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. I need to grab something to eat and head into the kitchen to search for something quick and easy. I throw the fridge open and frown. A lot of nothing stares back at me. I pull out some old Chinese food that my neighbor Jasmine and I got a couple of nights ago, lift the lid on the container, sniff and frown. Eww. Nope. I toss it in the trash and open the freezer. There’s a frozen pizza and a macaroni and cheese in there. So sad. But I decide on the mac and cheese and pop it in the microwave.
When I realize I forgot to check my mail, I grab my key and head outside to the little row of mailboxes by the edge of the pool. The bright blue water glimmers and it’s pretty quiet around here tonight. A lot of the tenants travel during the week, though, so it makes sense. But, when the weekend hits, we have barbecues and catch up on everyone’s lives.
I unlock my little box, reach in and pull out a few envelopes. My heart stops beating when I see the correspondence on top with a return address that reads the San Francisco Ballet Company.
“Oh, God,” I whisper under my breath. I auditioned for the company over five weeks ago and haven’t heard a word since. Moment of truth. I take a deep breath and tear it open. My gaze scans down the short paragraph which thanks me for auditioning and then informs me that the company has finalized all their contracts for the upcoming season and that they could not offer me one.
“Fuck,” I hiss. I tear the letter up and toss it in the small trash can nearby. With a sigh, I slump against my mailbox. I thought the audition had gone really well, too. The Assistant Director even complimented me.
Dammit.
Where did I go wrong? I had a letter of recommendation, took extra time with my appearance and made sure everything looked precise, clean and neat. I arrived early, warmed up thoroughly and I know I danced well. Maybe I should’ve been more up in the front? Or, had professional headshots and full body shots instead of the ones that Jasmine took?
All I know is rejection sucks.
I would’ve been happy getting into San Francisco, but whatever. Their loss. Yeah, right. I know it’s my loss and I’m pissed. I work harder than anybody and I hate rejection. I know their ultimate decision depends on a variety of things such as individual attributes like perfect or nearly perfect body proportions, musicality and expressivity.
Ballet is an art based on not only a tradition of technique, but also of aesthetics and expressive qualities, so it’s not easy to define who is the best or first. It’s very subjective which is why a lot of dancers who have been granted the title of “prima” are controversial among aficionados. But the one thing they all do possess is distinctiveness and that’s something that can only be achieved through natural gifts.
I know I have those gifts.
I must because if I’m not a ballerina then I have no idea who I am.
Whatever. Screw San Francisco. I try not to dwell on it too much because I’m still waiting to hear from San Diego about the audition I had there. The nice thing about San Diego is I’d be back home and close to my family. The bad thing is I’d be back home. For some reason, when people move away from their hometown and then return, they’re looked at like failures. Like they couldn’t hack it in the Big City, so they had to pack it up and go home.
As I walk back into my apartment, my cell phone rings, and I grab it. “Hi, Mom,” I say. I try to sound cheerier than I feel.
“Hi, honey. How is everything up in LA?”
“Good,” I say. Shitty, I think.
It’s frustrating as hell to devote your life to something, believe it’s what you’re meant to do with your entire being and then have someone disagree and tell you that you’re not good enough.
I pull the macaroni and cheese out of the microwave. It smells burnt and I peel the steaming plastic off it. Yep, it burned, but I’ll still eat it. I put my mom on speaker as I dig in and she updates me on what my Dad and two brothers have been up to. I’m the oldest and my younger brothers are both still in high school. Johnny is captain of the football team and Bryce is a total tech geek who creates video games for fun. They couldn’t be more different, but somehow it works and they’re extremely close.
My siblings and I have a fun, teasing relationship and even though we like to pick on each other endlessly, we’re a close trio and support each other hardcore.
When my mom gets around to asking if I’ve heard about either audition yet, I tell her no. I know it’s a lie, but I’m scared that if I tell her the truth then I’m going to get a lecture. Despite my little white lie, I still get the speech that’s becoming more and more common, and it grates on my nerves.
“Honey, we know how much you love ballet, but it’s okay to have a plan B. I’m not saying give up on your dream, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to think about applying to colleges.”
Fuck that, I think. “There are a lot of ballet companies, Mom. I’ve only tried out for a couple, and I will find the right one. It just takes time.”
I know my parents have my best interests at heart, but the idea of throwing away 17 years of hard work makes my gut twist. What would I study, anyway? Business? Philosophy? Psychology? Yawn. I can’t be trapped behind a desk all day, or I would die of boredom.
We talk for a few more minutes and then I tell her I must get ready for work. “I hate the idea of you dancing at some club and until so late at night, Taylor. Isn’t there some other job you can find?”
My eyes slide shut. “No, Mom. I take classes all day, so I need something at night.” I’ve explained this before, but it never seems to quite sink in completely. I know it’s because she cares, though, so I just bite my tongue and listen to her other familiar speech.
“Maybe at a grocery store or the mall? On the weekends?”
I tell her that I’ll think about it-- another lie-- and say goodbye. I feel bad, but I just don’t want to hear it. In all honesty, I’m starting to get worried that my dream isn’t panning out the way I want and it’s enough to make me physically ill.
Great. Now I’m in a bad mood and must put on a smile and dance for the next few hours. I suppose it’s the best thing for me, though. Go and lose myself in the music. I can forget about technique and style and my pointe shoes and, instead, just feel. I’m going to dance my anger and frustrations away tonight.
Back in the bathroom, I sit up on the counter and start to apply my makeup. I barely wear anything during the day except a tinted moisturiser and a little mascara. But, for Club Noir, I go all out with dark, smoky eyes, sparkles and a bold lipstick.
Same goes with my hair. Normally, it’s up in a tight bun, but now I can use the curling iron to add some body and let it cascade down my back in red waves. Because I’m a ginger, my skin is porcelain. Sometimes it looks so milky-white that I feel like I’m glowing. But the strong sun here in Southern California is not my friend and I found that out the hard way after burning a few times. Now, I slather on the sunblock, especially when we have our pool parties and barbecues.
I’d give anything to have my neighbor’s skin. Jasmine Torres has this perfect shade of golden-brown skin that looks perpetually tan and glows. Combined with her silky, straight, dark hair, almond-shaped eyes and statuesque figure, she’s a knockout. And a very successful runway model. Right now, she’s walking a catwalk somewhere over in Europe, but she promised to be back this weekend for the barbecue. I’m looking forward to catching up with her and my other neighbors, Hailey and Morgan.
Hailey Lane lives with Ryan Fox, the owner and landlord of Sunset Terrace. She’s also a very talented singer and I know it’s only a matter of time before she’s slinging out hit records. Already, she has an agent and is meeting lots of important people in the music Industry. And, she hasn’t even been out here for a year yet.
Ryan, or Foxy Flyboy as we like to call him, fell in love with Hailey when she moved in a few months ago. He’s a hot, former military pilot and they are inseparable. Even though he’s older, they’re perfect together. Sometimes, when I watch them laughing or whispering or kissing, a part of me is a little envious. I’ve never had a serious boyfriend and I have no time to date. Besides, most of the guys I know are either gay ballet dancers or silly frat boys like my upstairs neighbors, Cody and Mason.
And I’m looking for something a little different. I slide off the counter and go down to my bedroom to get dressed. When the time comes, I know exactly what I want in a man-- and, at the top of that list is someone who will respect my career and give me the freedom and independence that I crave. I’m no one’s arm candy and I have a mind of my own.
An older man will probably be best for me. Someone like Ryan Fox or Nick Knight. Savannah Hart, my old neighbor, was a model when she met Nick. He photographed her for a huge campaign, and they eloped in Las Vegas after knowing each other for a day. Talk about an impulsive decision, but when you know, you know. Now, she’s four months pregnant and expecting twins. I’m so happy for them and I don’t think that you can put a timestamp on falling in love.
It seems like all the younger girls here are being swept up in a whirlwind romance with an older man. Good for them, I think, and slip into a pair of extremely short, ripped up jeans. The front pockets are longer than the actual shorts and I pair it with a tank top and long-sleeve netted, mesh shirt. Then, I pull on my combat boots.
Yeah, when I decide to find a man, and that won’t be anytime soon, he will have to understand my rigid schedule and how important ballet is to me. It’s literally everything and I can’t imagine a man ever being more important.
Is that weird? Maybe something is wrong with me. After all, I am a 22-year-old virgin who has no desire to have a serious relationship with anyone except my career.
But what if my worst nightmare comes true? What if I don’t get into a ballet company?
No, I must stay positive and keep working hard. Keep striving for perfection. It’s the only way I’ll achieve my dream.
But, in the meantime, I’m going to burn off some stress, climb up into a wire cage and drop it like it’s hot.
2
Chaz
Here we go. I lean forward, fully expecting to hear an offer to star in the studio’s action film, but instead, my agent squirms in his seat, suddenly looking very uncomfortable.
I lift a brow and wait while Cal Morris fidgets some more, plays with his napkin and finally clears his throat and makes eye contact. “So, they do want to offer you a role, but...just not the one you want.”
Is he joking? I always get the role I want because I’m a fucking movie star who has paid his dues and worked in this town for a very long time. People respect me, cater to me and go out of their way to make sure I’m happy. I’ve earned it.
“What role?” I ask, completely puzzled. If it’s not the lead or part of an ensemble with a group of esteemed, award-winning actors, why would I even bother?
“Lenny Lawrence,” Cal says carefully, looking as though he hopes I don’t remember the character.
