My Secret Daddy (Daddy Knows Best Book 1)

  My Secret Daddy

  Kelly Myers

  Copyright © 2020 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.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Invitation to join Kelly’s Newsletter

  Blurb

  He is everything I ever wanted.

  But I can never have him.

  It was just one night with William Hart.

  He took my virginity, but I knew that had to be the end.

  I’m too young for him.

  And he’s too set in his bachelor ways.

  I’m a shy country girl.

  William is a powerful lawyer with an extravagant city life.

  We could never work.

  That doesn’t mean I don’t still want him though.

  He may be old enough to be my father,

  But that only makes me long for his touch.

  One mistake leads to another.

  And when I find out I’m pregnant,

  I know I’m in trouble...

  Chapter One

  Olivia

  I leaned back on my heels and surveyed the neat row of sugar snap peas behind me.

  I had been weeding all morning. The sun was high in the sky, but I had barely noticed the time passing. I never did when I was out in the fields, elbow-deep in the rich soil of the organic farm in Connecticut.

  I stood up and stretched, my tan arms cracking with relief. Then I dusted off some dirt on the legs of my jeans and turned back toward the barns. I needed lunch.

  When I entered the canteen, only Bridget was around.

  “Hiya, Liv,” she said.

  Bridget was one of very few people in the world who called me by a nickname. I’d always been Olivia to my mom and my half-brother. I didn’t really remember what my dad called me since I didn’t see him very often before he died. But he wasn’t the type to use nicknames. I did remember that.

  Bridget smiled as I grabbed my sandwich from the fridge and sat down at the wooden picnic table across from her. I never gave her express permission to use a nickname, Bridget was just that type of person to give everyone a nickname. She was already well into her forties when she started the organic farm a few years ago, and she’d lived a fast-paced life filled with adventures and travels before she got the idea to buy a plot of land and start producing high-quality fruits, vegetables, butter and other products.

  “Hey, Bridget,” I said. “The sugar snaps are gorgeous.”

  “It’s been a good summer,” Bridget said.

  I settled down and dug into the lunch I had brought from home. I rented a small place just a few miles down the road from the farm. It was cheap this far out in the country, and I enjoyed the quiet.

  Bridget cast an appraising eye over me.

  “You get up to anything last weekend?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I said. “Just stayed in and did laundry, that kind of thing.”

  Bridget raised her eyebrows. It killed her that I was twenty-two, supposedly in the prime of my life, and I spent all my time farming and doing home crafts.

  She didn’t understand that I wasn’t like her. I didn’t crave a spontaneous life or wild adventures. I liked to be in the peace and quiet of my own home.

  Alright, I supposed I craved some wild nights. Who didn’t?

  They just always seemed like more trouble than they were worth.

  “I’ll need you to go into the city this week to meet with some of the restaurants,” Bridget said.

  I looked up in surprise. Bridget knew that I didn’t love going into New York. The bustle and noise of the city overwhelmed me, and the restaurant managers were always yapping about how much produce they needed without the slightest understanding of how farming actually worked.

  “I know, babe, but I’ve got to go meet with my manure guy,” Bridget said. “You’ll be fine, Danny at Giovanni’s says he likes you, and you always get the orders right.”

  “Ok, should I catch the train down tomorrow?” I asked. “I can ask my friend if I can crash.”

  “Perfect,” Bridget said.

  She stood up and plopped her blue baseball cap over her messy blonde braid.

  “And who knows, if you and Danny hit it off again, maybe he’ll show you around town,” Bridget said with a wink.

  I let out a weak laugh and looked back down at my sandwich. That was the thing about working on a farm with only a handful of colleagues and a hippie boss. All semblance of professionalism went right out the window.

  It wasn’t that I was shy; it was just that Bridget’s jokes and ribbing constantly made me wonder what I was missing out on.

  Was I supposed to be able to get a guy to ask me out to dinner with just a coy smile and a wink? Was there something wrong with me if the thought of walking into a bar and getting some rich corporate guy to buy me a cocktail made me break out in hives?

  It wasn’t that I was shy. When I was around people I knew well, I could be comfortable and talk a lot. I just found meeting new people overwhelming. And when it came to men, I was hopeless. It was as if I had missed some critical class on how to date.

  I watched Bridget stroll out toward the fields with her long-legged and confident stride. Somehow she found dates even at her age and out in the country.

  I wondered what Bridget would say if she ever found out I was a virgin. She would probably command me to grab the closest farmer and find a hay loft. Bridget was all about sexual freedom, and she was always gabbing with the other girls about birth control and new-age sex therapists.

  I could never join in. Whenever the conversation turned in that direction, I would suddenly remember a patch of vegetables that needed immediate weeding.

  I still liked working on the farm though. After graduating college, my half-brother Richard told me I should get a reasonable and respectable job with a salary and a 401k. I had looked for that kind of thing, but when I saw the job posting to work at the farm in Connecticut, I was intrigued.

  Richard had scoffed, and my mom had told me it seemed a little strange, but she was at least glad that I would only be a thirty-minute drive away.

  I was a year into the job and I knew I had made the right choice. The farm was interesting, and there was never a dull day. I enjoyed being outdoors, and I liked feeling exhausted at the end of the day.

  I finished my sandwich and sighed. Bri had mentioned needing help with the chicken coop today. I much preferred planting to dealing with the livestock, but I had done enough for the sugar snap peas today.

  I stood up and adjusted my ponytail. When I first started at the farm, I thought the time outdoors in the sun might bleach my hair a lighter brown or at least give me highlights. Instead, my hair had insisted on remaining so dark it was almost black. My skin, however, had gotten quite tan, even though I wore sunscreen.

  I strode out of the barn and crossed
the fields toward where we kept the chickens. I could see Bri in the distance, the toolbox by her side. She was the go-to person when it came to repairs.

  Even though it was still early August, I was already mourning the end of the summer. The autumn would stay busy, but then activity at the farm would drop off for the winter. We still had to tend to the animals and sell a few products and make connections with the restaurant, but there was much more free time.

  Last winter, Bridget had dropped many hints about how winter was a good time to “put myself out there”. This winter, I had a feeling she was going to do more than hint.

  The solution was obvious. If I wanted to avoid Bridget’s not-so-subtle matchmaking, I was going to have to take action. I needed to at least try dating. Make friends.

  Maybe even lose my virginity.

  My stomach clenched at the thought.

  I couldn’t quite explain why it had become such an issue for me.

  My mother was religious, and she had raised me Christian, but I had never taken a vow of purity or decided to save myself for marriage. I saw nothing wrong with that, and I respected the women who did.

  My question had always been: why marriage? What can marriage guarantee?

  As far as I could see, marriage didn’t mean anything.

  My mom was my father’s third wife, and their marriage only lasted four years. My mom never recovered. My dad meanwhile dated around and probably would have settled down with a Wife Number Four if he hadn’t died in a car crash when I was eight.

  So I wasn’t saving myself for marriage, because I wasn’t exactly impressed by the institution. But I was saving myself for something. Or someone rather.

  I wanted someone I could trust. Someone who was responsible and respectful. So many of the guys I had met were childish and rude and immature. I couldn’t even imagine trusting them with my purse, much less my body.

  I shook away my cynical thoughts as I arrived at the chicken coop. A few of the boards had fallen off due to wear and tear. Together, Bri and I could fix it in no time.

  “I’ve come to lend a hand,” I said.

  “Great,” Bri said. “Go on and hold that steady.”

  Bri was a local teenager who worked a few hours a day, and she was quiet. She never spoke more than was necessary. I liked that about her.

  For the next hour, Bri and I didn’t exchange a word beyond occasional directions of where to place a nail.

  When we were done, I cleaned up the chicken coop area and fed the chickens. I checked for eggs as well, but came up empty. They usually laid in the morning.

  Then I met up with Bridget to go over the details of my trip to the city. I would meet with three restaurants to discuss the orders and delivery schedule for the upcoming month.

  Bridget wanted me to push the sweetcorn. I wasn’t much of a salesperson at all, but I told her I would do my best.

  At the end of the day, I hopped into my used jeep and drove to the little one-bedroom house I rented. I showered and changed into my pajamas even though it was barely seven. Then I double-checked the train schedule for the next day.

  I wanted to catch the nine am into the city. I would meet with the restaurants, then head over to my friend Grace’s apartment. She lived in a cramped studio, but we had been roommates in college, and she had a decent futon.

  I figured I should try and grab dinner with Richard as well so I texted him. I wasn’t close with my half-brother since he was over twenty years older than I was (he was a product of my dad’s first marriage), but we tried to see each other on a semi-regular basis. He did it out of obligation, and I did it because I knew it made my mom happy. It allowed her to say that I did have family, and Richard was my father figure.

  He wasn’t though. Not even close. I didn’t know what a good father figure was like, but it wasn’t Richard with his condescending speeches and all his bragging about his fancy investment banking job.

  Grace texted me a slew of messages about how excited she was to see me and how we were totally gonna have an amazing time.

  Richard emailed back that he didn’t think he could swing dinner, I needed to give him more advance notice, he was all booked up.

  That meant I could maybe have time to meet up with William. I chewed my lip as I considered. We had grabbed coffee together before, when he had time.

  William Hart: one of the most renowned bachelors in New York, notorious shark of a lawyer, and my one-time boss. He also happened to be a friend of Richard’s from college.

  Just thinking about William made my stomach do nervous somersaults. I set my phone aside. I had to get over my schoolgirl crush. William thought of me as a kid, nothing more.

  I poked around my kitchen. While I cooked, I hummed old country songs to myself.

  I ended up making grilled cheese with pesto and spinach and tomato salad. That was one thing about working on an organic farm: I always ate well.

  I ate while reading a mystery novel. I had already read a few books by the same author, and I was pretty sure I knew who the killer was after chapter three. I would finish it anyway. There wasn’t much else to do out in the country.

  I went to bed early.

  As I lay underneath my quilt and listened to the chirping cicadas and distant bullfrog song, I wondered if I was lonely.

  I probably was.

  That’s the scary thing about loneliness: you can get so used to it that you don’t even realize you’re drowning in it.

  Chapter Two

  William

  “No, we need that signed by Friday.”

  I clenched the phone in my fist and placed it in front of the window of my corner office.

  Sometimes I wanted to strangle my clients.

  I loved my job of course, and I would fight to the death for any client on the bloody and brutal battlefield of family law, but even so, some of them were idiots.

  “Yeah, I do not give a fuck that he is in the Caribbean,” I said. “You tell him to sign the newest custody agreement, or he can kiss goodbye to half his investments, and it will be the profitable half.”

  The assistant of the client in question hemmed and hawed about time changes and fax machines, and I tried not to punch a hole in my wall.

  I wanted to ask the assistant if he knew how often a man as rich as my client managed to hold onto most of his assets (not to mention beach houses) while divorcing his second wife (who had only married him for the money in the first place) all because he had an affair with a bottle service bimbo.

  Because it didn’t happen very often. I’m just that good.

  And yes, most of my clients were assholes, but they were wealthy assholes who paid through the nose for the services of me, William Hart, esquire. And I liked to think that I was worthy of my sky-high hourly rate.

  The assistant at last said he would see what he could do.

  “Good,” I said.

  I hung up and turned back to my desk.

  I flopped down in my leather chair and resisted the urge to pour myself a dram of whiskey from the corner bar.

  I hadn’t gotten to where I was by imbibing during working hours. That whiskey was for my male clients only. They were usually old-school men with bowties and wandering eyes who wanted to protect their considerable wealth.

  For my female clients, I had my secretary whip up Cosmopolitans.

  When all was said and done, I preferred the female clients. I hated to stereotype, but most of the time, the wives had committed less sins against the old institution of marriage. Or at least, women hid their sins better.

  Plus, I couldn’t deny that I, on occasion, had some fun with the odd female client. Always once she had officially become an ex-wife, and I was no longer on her payroll. I had some standards, after all.

  I didn’t restrict my nighttime activities to clients of course. Over the years, I had built up enough of a reputation that I could have my pick of women. Most of them understood to get out of my apartment quickly the next morning and to not text me too often after
ward.

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost the end of the workday, which meant I could clock out now and try to meet someone at a wine bar. I had been feeling restless and a healthy romp might help.

  What was the art gallery owner’s name from two weeks ago? Francesca?

  Then again, Francesca had been great, but a little repetitive.

  Everything had started feeling redundant of late.

  It wasn’t a noticeable problem, but rather a small twinge of annoyance in the background of my daily habits. A little question tickling the back of my mind: This again? Isn’t this getting a little old?

  Maybe I’m getting old.

  No, men like me didn’t get old. Men like me aged gracefully. We stayed lean and healthy through rounds of tennis at our clubs and restful vacations on private yachts. We kept our teeth sharp by chewing up opponents in the courtroom and earning bigger and bigger paychecks. We stayed young at heart by acting young and pursuing pleasure in all things.

  There may have been bits of gray in my hair, and I might have been approaching my forty-second birthday, but I knew I had never been better.

  I surged out of my chair and loosened my tie as I returned to the window.

  I had one of the best views of the city. My office building was just above the park, and my office faced south. I could see the sprawling behemoth of Manhattan, crawling with people trying to make it.

  Well, I had made it. I had got into Yale from a town just East of Nowhere, Idaho, with nothing but my brains and a scholarship. Four years in New Haven had taught me one thing: I wanted to be at the top, and I was going to do anything to get there. I didn’t care who I had to step on or what I had to beg, borrow or steal, I was going to live the life I wanted. I wasn’t going to go backward, there was no way.