Billionaire Has Daddy Issues In ‘Single Dad On Top’ [SPOTLIGHT]

Daddy's finger

When a playboy billionaire finds a baby on his doorstep, hilarity ensues in J.J. Knight’s Single Dad On Top. (Photo by Michael J, Flickr)

If you like romantic comedies, you’re going to love this new single dad story from the author of the USA Today bestselling single dad series, “Fight for Her!”

J.J. Knight's SINGLE DAD ON TOPI’m always on top.

My penthouse.

My corporate office above Manhattan.

And, of course, the women in my life.

But make no mistake. I choose. I control.

My life is mine.

Which is why I’m not sure what is going on when I open my front door and there’s a baby stroller sitting in my private hall.

The note on the infant simply says, “Do the DNA. She’s yours.”

Well, darn.

This hilarious story contains all the crazy elements of a billionaire alpha male meets girl next door for a fake marriage leading to a love affair — all while laughing over his inability to understand baby basics!)

Download this book on Amazon this week only for only 99¢ and be sure to add it to your reading list on Goodreads using the button below. 

Now enjoy this exclusive excerpt from the book!

My butler is as slow as he’s ever been in the history of my employ. After long excruciating minutes of the baby’s blood curdling cries, he appears with the bottle. I snatch it from him.

The nipple slides into her mouth, and for a moment, there is blessed silence.

I sigh in relief. That’s all it was.

But within seconds, she’s pushed the bottle out of her mouth, milk dribbling down her chin. It soaks the lacy collar of her dress. I forgot the bib.

I try to put the nipple back in, but she won’t let me, shifting her head from side to side. The cries begin again, working their way back up to an ear-splitting howl.

I set the bottle down and put her on my shoulder. I’ll have to burp her. Yes, I have it. I’m on this. I can do it.

Nothing happens.

I increase the pressure a bit more.

She continues crying, now at a headache-inducing decibel so close to my head.

I can’t pound the child.

Grace continues her cries, now jagged and punctuated by gagging coughs.

She’s sick. I knew it. She has pneumonia. Or whooping cough. Or consumption.

She’ll die right here. It will be a scandal. The mother will show up with a lawsuit. They’ll arrest me. Maybe that was their plot all along.

I hold Grace up in the air to look at her. As soon as she goes up, she stops crying. I bring her down, then back up. And she giggles.

I do it again, down and up. Grace laughs again, her arms waving.

Okay, so she’s not dying.

I bring her back down in my arms, and within seconds, she’s back at it. Her cries echo off the tiled walls. Oh my God. What will make it stop? I run through the list. Hunger. Gas. Wetness.

Is it the diaper?

There’s a curved pad on the counter with a soft cover. I’m guessing that’s where I’m supposed to set her down.

When I place her there, it’s like she’s been put on the rack to be drawn and quartered. The wails intensify. I can barely stand it.

I soldier through and pluck at the elastic edges of the little undergarments she has on under her dress. Do I take it all off? Can I get it back on again if I do?

Instead, I stretch the elastic to the limit. Beneath is another layer of plastic. The diaper.

It doesn’t stretch as easily, so I hold up her leg to get a look.

I’ve only moved it a small amount when a strange mustard yellow substance leaks out.

God. What is that? She really is sick.

That’s it. I can’t take another moment.

I scoop her in my arms and rush out to the hall.

I don’t stop to tell Bernard what I’m doing. I dash straight for the elevator.

I’m not sure where I’m going. The ER, maybe. Is there a children’s hospital in Manhattan? The taxi driver will know.

Or maybe not.

We only go down a few floors before we stop. Then again. And again. It seems everyone is headed out for the evening.

It’s crowded and everyone stares at me and my wailing, dying child with her mustard yellow privates.

When we finally get to the foyer, I realize I haven’t called my driver. No telling where he is. I’ll have to just hail a taxi.

But I don’t have the car seat. It’s still upstairs.

Grace has unexpectedly quieted, her interest caught by all the new people and sights. But that doesn’t change what’s happened to her bowels. I knew that mother abandoned her for a reason.

I rush out onto the sidewalk, looking right and left. Traffic is bumper to bumper, and none of the taxis have their lights on.

I’m contemplating paying someone to abandon theirs, if I can get them to open their window, when I hear a soft voice.

“Mr. Brant?”

I turn. It’s Taylor, from Arianna’s child spa. I’m standing in front of the windows.

“Is there a children’s hospital in Manhattan?” I ask her.

Her jaw drops. “Is the baby sick?” Then she motions me inside. “Come in here.”

“You’re still open?” I ask. The interior is dim.

“The teachers just left,” she says. “I was about to lock up. What’s wrong?”

“The baby. I checked her diaper. It’s awful. I think she’s sick.”

Taylor bites her lip to hide a smile, and that’s the first indication I have that maybe I’m wrong about this. She sets her purse on her desk.

“What makes you think something is wrong with her diaper?” she asks.

“It’s — it’s not normal.”

“Is there blood?” she asks. She tries to be subtle, but I see her push a button on the edge of her desk.

“No,” I say. “It’s just…it’s just not normal stuff.”

The door to the back opens and Arianna comes out. “Is everything okay?”

She stops short when she sees me.

“Mr. Brant,” she says. She glances at Grace, who looks around at the colorful walls.

“He thinks Grace is sick,” Taylor says.

“Oh?” She’s not the least bit concerned. “What are her symptoms?”

Now, I’m starting to realize I’m wrong. But I’ve got Arianna back now, and there’s no way I’m letting her go again.

“He says it’s her poop,” Taylor says.

Now Arianna takes a turn biting back a smile. “Her poop,” she repeats.

“It’s yellow,” I say, less frantic now.

“It was that way earlier,” Arianna says. “Probably the formula. It’s not uncommon.”

I fumble with my words. “But poop is,” I can’t believe I’m saying this. “Brown.”

Now both the women are biting their lips.

Yeah, I get it. I’m stupid.


JJ Knight is the author of the USA Today bestselling series Fight for Her, as well as Uncaged Love, Revenge, and Blue Shoes. She likes her heroes alpha, her heroines bold, and her stories to captivate.

Visit JJ’s home on the Web, follow her on Goodreads, and like her on Facebook.

By J.J. Knight
394 pgs. CreateSpace. $0.99


Xpresso Book Tours buttonSingle Dad On Top is brought to you in association with Xpresso Book Tours.


About J.R. Wallace
J.R. Wallace is a freelance writer and blogger who enjoys cooking, reading, travel and fitness. He lives in Ohio with his family, two cats and a ferret named Igor.

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