Fake Marrying My Dad's Best Friend

Chapter 1

Heather

The coffee maker gurgles as I pace my small apartment kitchen, muttering lines from yesterday's audition under my breath. Another day, another casting call—the life of a struggling actress in Hollywood. My phone buzzes against the granite counter, and I snatch it up before the first ring ends.

"Heather Phillips speaking."

"Pack your bags, darling. You're going to be a star." My agent Marco's voice rings through the speaker.

I grip the edge of the counter. "What are you talking about?"

"Remember that audition for 'Midnight in Manhattan'? The studio just called. You got the lead."

The room spins. 'Midnight in Manhattan'—the most anticipated romantic drama of the year. A $100 million budget. My coffee grows cold, forgotten.

"This isn't a joke, right? Because if it is—"

"Would I joke about Universal Pictures? You start filming in three weeks."

I sink onto a barstool, my legs unable to hold me up any longer. "Holy shit."

"There's more. Your co-star? None other than Lawrence Blake himself."

The name hits me like a bucket of ice water. Lawrence Blake. The man who's been at every Christmas dinner at my parents' house since I was ten. The same Lawrence who taught me how to ride a bike when Dad was too busy filming. The Lawrence whose blue eyes and perfect jawline grace magazine covers worldwide.

"Lawrence?" My voice comes out as a squeak. "Does he know I'm cast?"

"He signed off on you personally. Listen, I'm sending over the contract now—"

But I barely hear Marco's words. My mind races with memories of Lawrence ruffling my hair, calling me "kiddo," showing up at my high school graduation. Now I'll have to kiss him. Act intimate scenes with him. My stomach knots.

"Heather? You still there?"

"Yeah, I just... I need a minute."

"Take all the minutes you need, but sign that contract today. This is your big break."

I end the call and stare at my reflection in the dark kitchen window. At twenty-four, I've fought hard to step out of my father's shadow, to make it on my own merit. And now my first major role will be opposite Dad's best friend.

The next three weeks blur into a frenzy of preparation. My tiny apartment transforms into a war room of script pages, character notes, and research materials. I practice my lines until my neighbors probably know them by heart, perfecting my New York accent for the role of Sophie, an ambitious gallery curator.

Every surface holds a piece of the puzzle—method acting books, art history volumes, even a makeshift gallery layout taped to my living room wall. But no amount of preparation can settle the flutter in my stomach when I think about working with Lawrence.

The morning of our first shoot arrives too soon. I step onto the Universal lot, clutching my coffee like a lifeline. The bustle of crew members, the towering lights, the maze of equipment—it's a far cry from the indie films I've done before.

"There's my leading lady." A familiar deep voice cuts through the chaos.

I spin around, nearly spilling my coffee. Lawrence stands there in his character's tailored suit, somehow looking even more striking than he does in magazines. The same Lawrence who used to push me on the swings is now my romantic lead.

"Hey." My voice cracks. Real smooth, Heather.

"Nervous?" His eyes crinkle at the corners as he steps closer.

"Me? Never." I try to channel Sophie's confidence, but my hands shake as I tuck my hair behind my ear.

"You've got this." He squeezes my shoulder, and the warmth of his touch sends electricity through my body. This is definitely not the same way I felt when I was ten.

"Places everyone!" The director's voice booms across the set.

Lawrence winks at me before heading to his mark. I take my position behind the prop gallery desk, trying to focus on being Sophie rather than the fact that in five minutes, I'll have to flirt with a man who once taught me how to throw a proper punch.

The cameras roll. Lawrence approaches the desk, transforming into James, the wealthy art collector. My heart pounds against my ribs. This is really happening. I'm actually here, in a major studio production, opposite Lawrence Blake.

"Action!"

"I'm looking for something..." Lawrence's voice drops an octave as he leans against my desk, channeling James's signature swagger. "Special."

I lift my gaze from the inventory list, meeting those intense blue eyes. My stomach flips. "We have several exclusive pieces, Mr. Harrison. Any particular period you're interested in?"

"Contemporary." He moves closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne—the same one he's worn for years. "Something that speaks to the soul."

The director, Richard Morrison, calls cut. He storms over, his designer glasses askew. "Lawrence, more heat. This is supposed to be love at first sight. And Heather—" He waves his hands in frustration. "You're too stiff. Loosen up."

We reset. Take after take, Lawrence nails every line with the precision of a twenty-year veteran. I struggle to match his energy, to forget the times he carried me on his shoulders at family barbecues.

"Better watch those shoulders, kiddo." Lawrence adjusts my posture between takes. "You're doing that tense thing you used to do before dance recitals."

"I'm not a kid anymore, Lawrence." The words come out sharper than intended.

His expression shifts. "Of course not. I just—"

"Again!" Richard's voice cracks like a whip. He's been checking his phone obsessively between takes, his face growing more pinched by the hour. "And this time, try to act like adults who want to fuck each other, not a father-daughter career day."

Heat crawls down my body. Lawrence's jaw tightens, but he returns to his mark without comment.

The next take flows differently. I let Sophie take over, channeling her confidence. When Lawrence approaches, I match his intensity. Our eyes lock. The air crackles with tension.

"I think I found exactly what I'm looking for." His fingers brush mine as I hand him the gallery catalog. Electricity shoots up my arm.

"Cut! Finally!" Richard throws his hands up. "That's what I've been waiting for. Take five while I deal with this..." He stalks off, phone pressed to his ear, muttering about lawyers and NDAs.

Lawrence turns to me with newfound respect in his eyes. "Where did that come from?"

"Guess I'm full of surprises." I straighten my blazer, trying to ignore how my skin still tingles where he touched me.

"That you are." His gaze lingers a moment too long before he heads to his trailer, leaving me to wonder if maybe he's finally seeing me as more than just his best friend's little girl.

A harried assistant director rushes toward us, her headset askew. She gestures for Lawrence and me to step aside from the bustling crew.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," she says, lowering her voice. "But there's a situation with Richard."

Lawrence crosses his arms. "Sarah, I've never seen you this nervous. What kind of situation are we talking about?"

"He's being sued. One of his previous actresses filed harassment charges this morning." She glances around, making sure no one else is within earshot. "The story's about to break."

My stomach drops. "Harassment? But we just started filming."

"This is from his last project." She wrings her hands. "The studio's in damage control mode, but... this could impact our production schedule."

"Jesus Christ." Lawrence runs a hand through his hair. "How bad are we talking?"

"Multiple incidents, apparently. The legal team's reviewing options, but..." She shakes her head. "I'm so sorry. I know this isn't what either of you signed up for."

I cross my arms over my chest as my mind races. My first big break, and it might crash before it even takes off. "What happens to the film?"

"That's up in the air right now. The studio will make an announcement once they've assessed the situation." Her walkie-talkie crackles. "I should get back. Just... keep this quiet for now?"

She hurries off, leaving Lawrence and me in stunned silence. The excited buzz I felt earlier evaporates, replaced by a cold weight in my chest. Through the studio windows, I watch Richard pacing in his office, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing wildly.

My jaw clenches. What the fuck has he done?