Single Dad on Top: A Baby and Clueless Billionaire Romantic Comedy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Dell

  Chapter 2: Arianna

  Chapter 3: Dell

  Chapter 4: Arianna

  Chapter 5: Dell

  Chapter 6: Arianna

  Chapter 7: Dell

  Chapter 8: Arianna

  Chapter 9: Dell

  Chapter 10: Arianna

  Chapter 11: Dell

  Chapter 12: Arianna

  Chapter 13: Dell

  Chapter 14: Arianna

  Chapter 15: Dell

  Chapter 16: Arianna

  Chapter 17: Dell

  Chapter 18: Arianna

  Chapter 19: Dell

  Chapter 20: Arianna

  Chapter 21: Dell

  Chapter 22: Arianna

  Chapter 23: Dell

  Chapter 24: Arianna

  Chapter 25: Dell

  Chapter 26: Arianna

  Chapter 27: Dell

  Chapter 28: Arianna

  Chapter 29: Dell

  Chapter 30: Arianna

  Chapter 31: Dell

  Chapter 32: Arianna

  Chapter 33: Dell

  Chapter 34: Arianna

  Chapter 35: Dell

  Chapter 36: Arianna

  Chapter 37: Dell

  Chapter 38: Arianna

  Chapter 39: Dell

  Chapter 40: Arianna

  Chapter 41: Dell

  Chapter 42: Arianna

  Chapter 43: Dell

  Chapter 44: Arianna

  Epilogue: The DOMs

  Also by JJ Knight on Amazon

  Sneak Peek of another JJ Single Dad romance

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Dell

  Chapter 2: Arianna

  Chapter 3: Dell

  Chapter 4: Arianna

  Chapter 5: Dell

  Chapter 6: Arianna

  Chapter 7: Dell

  Chapter 8: Arianna

  Chapter 9: Dell

  Chapter 10: Arianna

  Chapter 11: Dell

  Chapter 12: Arianna

  Chapter 13: Dell

  Chapter 14: Arianna

  Chapter 15: Dell

  Chapter 16: Arianna

  Chapter 17: Dell

  Chapter 18: Arianna

  Chapter 19: Dell

  Chapter 20: Arianna

  Chapter 21: Dell

  Chapter 22: Arianna

  Chapter 23: Dell

  Chapter 24: Arianna

  Chapter 25: Dell

  Chapter 26: Arianna

  Chapter 27: Dell

  Chapter 28: Arianna

  Chapter 29: Dell

  Chapter 30: Arianna

  Chapter 31: Dell

  Chapter 32: Arianna

  Chapter 33: Dell

  Chapter 34: Arianna

  Chapter 35: Dell

  Chapter 36: Arianna

  Chapter 37: Dell

  Chapter 38: Arianna

  Chapter 39: Dell

  Chapter 40: Arianna

  Chapter 41: Dell

  Chapter 42: Arianna

  Chapter 43: Dell

  Chapter 44: Arianna

  Epilogue: The DOMs

  Also by JJ Knight on Amazon

  Sneak Peek of another JJ Single Dad romance

  Single Dad on Top

  By JJ Knight

  author of

  Uncaged Love

  Fight for Her

  Revenge

  Blue Shoes

  Summary:

  A billionaire investor discovers a former lover has left a baby on his doorstep and enlists the help of a sassy woman who runs the daycare downstairs.

  Copyright © 2017 by JJ Knight All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews, fan-made graphics, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons , living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  v1

  JJ Knight

  www.jjknight.com

  Chapter 1: Dell

  I love women.

  The smell of them. Their skin.

  How their hips fit against mine. The spread of their thighs.

  That perfect sensation of slipping inside their bodies.

  Exquisite.

  But I sure as hell wouldn’t want to live with one of them.

  Thankfully, I don’t have to choose just one.

  Last weekend was Camellia Walsh, a winsome redhead who wasted no time in the back of the limo after we left the ballet.

  And next up is Meredith Sing, a southern belle who just came on as an attorney in one of my company’s legal divisions. I don’t bother worrying about the fact that she works for me. Her position is far enough removed from my office that our paths will never cross again.

  Our positions will cross plenty on Friday night.

  But today is only Wednesday. I review my choice of attire, set aside by my butler. Navy suit. Pale gray shirt. Burgundy Yves Saint Laurent tie. Simple and precise.

  As I dress, I consider the two critical meetings taking place today. Both are sick companies I will purchase and make well. Then sell for a profit.

  The first appointment will begin in precisely seventy-two minutes.

  I will be there in thirty.

  My tie slides into place as I walk through the master bedroom toward the hall. I only moved into this penthouse six months ago. Prime real estate in Manhattan is hard to come by with a billionaire on every block. Eventually, I had to buy an entire building to acquire a living space that met my standards.

  But I had succeeded. And the busty blonde who got me the place broke it in properly.

  We made use of the pristine marble countertop of the kitchen island. My lips still twitch in a smile when I spot Bernard, my butler and cook, preparing a meal in that particular spot.

  When I reach the breakfast room door, Bernard himself greets me, tall and gray-haired.

  “Good morning, sir,” he says with a slight nod. He is impeccably dressed in a charcoal shirt and pants. This man is a godsend.

  The only other creature allowed to take up residence in my home is Maximillion. This sleek greyhound once held all the leaderboards at the Birmingham Racetrack. He has been my pride and joy since I purchased him after his retirement.

  Bernard holds out the heavy silver bowl with Maximillion’s breakfast. I take it, part of my morning ritual.

  The space I enter would have been a sunroom for other people. It boasts a bright atrium with glass walls and wicker furniture. For us, this is Maximillion’s domain.

  He bounds toward me. But after a quick cluck of my tongue, he stops short.

  When I say, “Here, boy,” he approaches with lean, muscled poise.

  Maximillion is a real beauty, pearl gray and long-nosed. Exquisitely behaved. Each command has been perfected by his obedience trainer.

  He is my favorite thing in this world. Possibly the only thing I truly adore.

  “Your breakfast,” I say, setting the bowl in the custom cabinet with his name etched in steel.

  Maximillion gives me a handsome nod. I lavish him with preci
sely three scratches between his ears. Then he turns to address his meal. I stand, arms crossed, watching him for a full four minutes before turning on my heel. My free time is at an end.

  I will breakfast myself at the office as I review a few figures before my first meeting. I pass Bernard, who holds out my attaché case. Barring a traffic condition, I should arrive at Brant Financial Industries within my preferred time frame.

  It has been this way every day since I opened the Manhattan office. Six years. As punctual as my childhood paper routes. Only a tad more lucrative.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Brant,” Bernard says.

  I press my hand to the security console next to the heavy oak door. The seal opens with a small pop. Bernard pulls on the handle and steps aside.

  But I don’t move.

  There is an object blocking my way. A lacy frilly thing.

  I peer down the hall to the elevator. I occupy this entire floor. No one can approach my penthouse without approval by the doorman, who would have alerted Bernard.

  The gleaming wood floor is silent and empty.

  I take a few steps, peering at the plants on either end of the hall. No one is hiding anywhere.

  My face turns back to Bernard.

  “Perhaps it is a gift, sir?” he suggests.

  Who would give me this odd cart, layered in ruffles and lace?

  “Dispose of it,” I tell him. “Perhaps the doorman will know where it was supposed to go.”

  I’m about to stride away when I hear a sound.

  A strange, tiny cry.

  I freeze.

  Bernard’s lips form a grimace. “There’s an odor, sir.”

  I check my watch. My driver is waiting down below. “Just handle it, Bernard.”

  Then the sound again, louder.

  Against my better judgment, I approach the mound of fluff and bows. It’s a blanket, I see now, embellished with all manner of feminine bling. It covers the opening of the cart.

  I peel a corner of the blanket back. Shit.

  It’s an infant, quite young, its red squally face scrunched up in misery. It makes another terrible sound. This one is more distressed than before.

  “It’s a baby?” Bernard takes another step back. He looks ready to slam the door.

  “Apparently,” I say. There’s a large card resting on the pink blanket where the child’s body is wrapped in a mummy fashion. I don’t even have to look closely to read it. The type is outrageously large, like a tabloid headline. The words are few and simple. They shrivel my loins.

  Dell Brant,

  Do the DNA. She’s yours.

  Chapter 2: Arianna

  The day has barely begun and already I’m strung out to the nines.

  One of my baby room employees has called in sick. None of my backups are answering their phones at seven a.m.

  I juggle a four-month-old on my hip. He’s got a fist full of my rather delicate silk blouse, and no doubt any second it will have spit-up on it. That’s not his fault. I didn’t dress for baby holding today, even though it’s one of my favorite things in the world.

  I’m supposedly in charge of the women who do hold the babies.

  I hire them. Train them. Help them love these children as I do.

  But today my well-oiled machine is stuck in the mud.

  I’m waiting for Mrs. Andrew P. Shilling III to stop texting her yogi and discuss potty training her son.

  Of course, she’s only twenty-five and the fourth Mrs. Andrew P. Shilling. I wonder if the former ones still call themselves Mrs. Andrew P. Shilling.

  These are the things I think about when trying to remain patient with the rich and clueless.

  The baby in my arms, Titus, lets out a big yawn and thunks his head on my shoulder. Within seconds, he lets out a little snore. Thank goodness. Still, I can’t put him down. Until I get an extra worker in the baby room, I don’t have the guaranteed three-to-one ratio that my upscale day care promises its über-wealthy parents.

  And there are several of them who will walk through the rooms to count.

  Every day. They count.

  “Mrs. Shilling,” I say. “About little Drew.”

  She waves her coral-manicured hand. “I’m sure you’ve got the piddles under control, Arianna,” she says, as if her child is a dog. “I trust you.” She gives me a long meaningful stare before glancing back down at her screen.

  “What I mean is that it’s helpful to follow through at home as well,” I say. But she’s already turning away. I’m dismissed.

  I shift Titus to my other shoulder and pull out my cell phone again to see if anyone has returned my message. I’ll have to contact a service to help with my shortage if I can’t get anyone to come in. Or I’ll end up in the baby room myself all day. I don’t mind usually. It’s just I have so much else to do.

  I pass the check-in display in the hall. The last babies are here. There’s no point in carrying Titus around. I’m off ratio. I better get in there before one of the parents raises a fuss.

  I may be the founder, director, and owner. But today I will watch the babies.

  Del Gato Child Spa is the gold standard in child care. I have two baby rooms, four toddler rooms, and a preschool. We have indoor and outdoor playscapes, baby massage, our own kitchen to prepare individual meals for each child, and a splash pad.

  The facility is impeccably organized, and two staffers have the sole responsibility to keep things tidy so that no one ever peeks in on a toy-strewn room.

  Wait. Maria.

  She’s one of my Organization Experts.

  I could ask Maria to tend the baby room for the day. She’s been asking to move up. She’s almost done with her child care certification. She’s proven trustworthy and reliable.

  I shove my phone in my ample bra. I have plenty of boob to squish around to conceal it.

  And Maria is perfect. She raised three kids of her own. I couldn’t bring her on as a baby teacher right away, as she didn’t have the credentials. But she’s been here two years and she’s close enough.

  I wander down the hall, looking for her. I spot her in the changing room, a bright white facility as sterile as a hospital. It’s her job to make sure everyone is stocked with their preference of disposable, cloth, organic, hemp, lined, or fully custom diapers.

  The rather handsome monthly fees cover everything. No one tours my facility without feeling amazed and impressed. It’s designed to do that. It’s not for the budget conscious.

  I pop my head in the changing room, holding on to Titus. “Maria, you ready for a different assignment today?”

  She turns, her elaborate black braids twisted in coils on either side of her head. She’s a little over forty, with a broad happy smile and cheerful demeanor.

  “What would you prefer I do?” She stands and pats the pockets of her elegant slate blue smock with the Del Gato Child Spa logo stitched over her heart.

  “I’m just thinking — would you like to work the baby room today? Elena is out, and I think Shelly can handle the organization duties for today.”

  Her eyes light up. “None of the subs could come?”

  “I can’t get them to answer, and I’d like you to get some experience.”

  She squeals a little, then quiets when Titus stirs. “Room A or B?” she asks.

  “A. You can take Titus. The co-teacher is Dot. She’s already there.”

  Maria expertly transfers Titus to her shoulder without waking him. “I’m so happy, Miss Arianna! I’ve been waiting for this day!”

  “Have fun,” I say. “I’ll check in regularly.”

  Now that this is settled, I resume my morning walk-through. All the children are already here despite the early hour. Their parents bring them the maximum time, seven to six, leaving maybe an hour or two of parenting duties for themselves.

  My clients are wealthy, driven, and successful. They expect to continue the work that got them where they are, unhampered by the time-consuming duties required by their offspring.

 
I’m here to make sure their sweet babies get what they might otherwise be missing. Love, hugs, Band-Aids with kisses, and a nurturing environment.

  My website, brochures, and marketing all push the things the parents want to hear. Getting ahead. Testing above peers. Excellence, school prep, quality. But for the day-to-day, I know what these kids need the most. Someone to gaze at them. Tell them they are precious. To really see them. I charge the fees I need to ensure I can keep that standard. The one that counts.

  My footsteps are light as I turn the corner toward the preschool. Genevieve is reading a story while Nadia organizes the art tables. All is well for these children.

  I don’t really judge the parents for where they’ve ended up. I get it. Their work is important. They keep Wall Street humming and new companies funded. I do what I do because all this happened to me. My father managed global funds and spent his days in London, Zurich, and other far-flung places.

  My mother was a professional charity volunteer. She organized galas, helped the hungry, made the world a better place. Everywhere, of course, except the place where she was needed the most. With me. So now, I do this.

  A low tone sounds, the signal that someone has entered the foyer. I take another glance at the check-in panel on the wall, wondering if I missed someone coming in late.

  But all the children are confirmed as arrived.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Taylor at the front desk. She needs me up front.

  Must be a new prospect. They will be disappointed to learn we don’t anticipate an opening for six months, and there is a long waiting list for the spot. I don’t just have pregnant women on the list. I have clients who plan to get pregnant in the next year on it as well.

  I press the security code that separates the classrooms from the foyer and step through.

  Then immediately pause.

  A man is standing there, impeccably dressed in a navy suit. He’s mid-thirties and the level of handsome you only expect in magazine ads. Dark hair. Chiseled jaw. Broad shoulders. My cheeks heat up.

  “Can I help you?” I ask.

  He pushes a baby carriage at me. It’s draped with ribbons and lace and covered with an exquisite blanket. I take a deep breath. Does he think this is a baby drop-off?