A Fake Engagement, Nanny, Opposites Attract Romance
Part of Grumpy Santas
One orgasmic night. One colossal mistake. Now I’m wearing the ring of my damaged billionaire boss.
I was supposed to be invisible—just a movie set gopher with a headset and clipboard.
Asher Callahan is Hollywood royalty. Cold. Commanding. Still haunted by his late wife. A single dad who terrifies everyone on set… except his twelve-year-old daughter.
The first time I calm her panic attack, he sees me. The second time, he kisses me. The third time, I wake up alone in his bed—with his walls back up.
When scandal threatens his career, he hands me a ring and a deal: “Be my fiancée.”
Now I’m living in his mansion, pretending to be the woman who tamed him—and falling hard for the man who touches me like I’m his salvation.
But Asher’s hiding a secret that could destroy his entire family. And when it explodes in the worst possible way, I’ll have to decide if love is worth the wreckage.
One fake engagement. One devastating heartbreak. And a Christmas that changes everything.
AmazonExcerpt from Grumpy Billionaire Santa © Copyright 2025 Aria McDow
1
Chapter One
ASHER
“Quiet on the set!” The first assistant director’s voice slices through the growing heat of Southern California in late August. Beneath layers of faux snow, the actors are sweating in winter coats and scarves. The clapperboard snaps crisply. “Action!” the director calls.
The actors and extras spring to life, the next scene from A Winter’s Wish unfolds in front of me.
I take a grateful sip from my black tumbler, the iced coffee offering a jarring relief against the unseasonable heat. A sharp contrast to the Christmas fantasy playing out before me.
Old Town Pasadena is our location—a real, bustling downtown with actual storefronts, but under the crew’s meticulous touch, it’s become a picture-perfect, Hallmark-style winter wonderland. Strings of twinkling lights and the soft strains of Christmas carols spill from hidden speakers. Actors, posing as shop owners, sell hot cocoa and hand-crafted ornaments from pop-up booths, as extras—bundled in scarves and mittens—pass by, discreetly fanning themselves between takes.
The smell of pine from the artificial trees mixes with the California heat, creating a strange, surreal atmosphere.
I’m keenly aware that it’s all fake. And that fakeness fits perfectly with the cynicism that clings to me like a second skin.
I glance toward Sable, my twelve-year-old daughter. She’s hanging out near the Hair and Makeup crew, alternating between scrolling on her phone and cracking jokes with the staff. Even from across the set, I can see the way she bends herself to fit in, her laughter that I rarely hear these days is loud.
But I know that side of her too well. It’s a mask—one that hides the girl desperate to bury her loneliness and for someone to see her. To really see her. Especially me.
I shift my focus back to the set, absently fingering the worn edge of a scrap of paper in my pocket. It’s the list—always there. Private. Dog-eared from years of additions and revisions, but never once crossed off. Things I never got to say. It suffocates sometimes, her name always floating to the top.
The house we used to live in—when Sable’s mom, my wife, Amanda, was still alive—was full of laughter, color, and warmth. Now, it’s just quiet. So quiet that it eats at me. Half the time I can’t sleep, so I make lists. Regrets. Parenting to-dos. Movies I wish she could have seen. My “grief list” is seven pages long now.
I never let Sable see it.
I push the thoughts aside, the aside, but they linger like static at the edge of my awareness. There’s too much to focus on right now.
