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

by JJ Knight

  “All right. Then I apologize. I’m not used to being surrounded by people like you.”

  “Oh my God,” she says. “People like me. Underlings. Lower class. Working Joes.” She turns to leave the study, then stops and whirls around. “I’ll have you know I vacation in the Hamptons! I went to Brown! And my family has a building named after it too!”

  “Arianna, wait.” I reach out to her again. I’m totally captivated by this version of her. Strong. Unyielding. Mad. And I had no idea she had a background like that, although it makes sense now. The classic look. The confidence. Instilled by her parents, no doubt.

  She lets out a long breath. “You’re in good hands. I think you see that the Helen girl is fine. So you’re all set!”

  “She’s in school, Arianna. What do I do with the baby during classes?”

  “Maybe she’s taking a break. Maybe it’s online. Ask her. It’s an interview.” Arianna reaches for the study door, and this time she opens it.

  “Good luck,” she says over her shoulder. “I hope the answer you get on Monday is what you’re looking for.”

  She storms through the living room, picking up her bag as she passes the sofa. Bernard is waiting by the door. He bows a little as Arianna passes.

  When he closes it again, he says, “Well, that’s done, sir. Now what are you going to do?”

  “I’m probably going to hire that girl in there. Can you keep her entertained while I interview the next one? I don’t want to let her out of my sight, really.”

  I sink on the sofa. At least I have someone here. She’s probably still sitting by Grace, cooing her silly noises. For the first time today, I can totally relax. I prefer employees, people I pay. Not those doing favors who tend to argue and do as they like.

  Bernard pinches his lips in an unhappy line. “That is unfortunately not possible,” he says.

  “Why?” My body rushes cold.

  “She left. Said she didn’t get a ‘good vibe’ but to thank you for the opportunity.”

  “Shit.” I leap from the sofa and barrel to the door, praying Arianna is still at the elevator. Or Helen. I can buy her out. Pay for her college. She’ll stay.

  But the hall is empty. Both are gone.

  Damn.

  Stupid penthouse. I’d run down the stairs but no way I’d catch them. It’s forty floors.

  I don’t have Helen’s number. But I know where Arianna is.

  “Um, sir?” It’s Bernard standing by the door.

  “Yes, Bernard?”

  “I think you are forgetting something.”

  “What?”

  “The child. It is wailing.”

  “Can’t the shopping woman do something? They were all fawning over her earlier.”

  “She isn’t here. Wanted to get some dishwasher insert for the bottles.”

  “What about that housecleaner?”

  “Went with her. Wanted to get some special detergent for the baby’s clothes.”

  I glance over at the elevator. It’s down around the sixth floor. Why doesn’t this damn penthouse have a dedicated elevator?

  “Can’t you watch her just for a minute? I’m trying to save our skin.”

  Bernard stands a little straighter. “It’s not in my contract, sir. You know that.”

  Shit.

  I reluctantly head back into the penthouse. I can only hope the second nanny shows and she’s a winner.

  Chapter 14: Arianna

  I’m tempted to stop by my own apartment on the way down and make sure I’m put together. But it’s already coming up on five o’clock, and the exodus from the child spa will begin shortly. Plus I want to check on Maria and also find out from Taylor if she found any more candidates for Dell.

  Scratch that. I’ve done enough.

  The elevator arrives at the bottom floor. I’m about to step out when I spot a woman who has caught the attention of everyone in the foyer.

  She wears a fire-engine-red dress with a sweetheart neckline that dives deep into her cleavage. Her skinny waist and perfectly curved hips are the reason Photoshop was created for everybody else.

  To top it off, her shoes are adorable, wedges with red straps that crisscross her ankles.

  She’s the sort of girl that crushes my self-esteem. I could never be that bold or beautiful.

  As I hold the door while she enters, I turn and look to see where the elevator is going. When I see the penthouse has been programmed in, I head right back into the elevator.

  “Forgot something,” I say.

  She nods and steps back. She holds a glossy red purse and a slip of paper. I hit the number for my floor and steal a glance at the handwritten note.

  It’s Dell’s address. And “Nanny job. 5:00.”

  WHAT?

  I look at her again. I don’t like to think I’m judgmental, but why is she going to a nanny interview in that getup?

  Unless she was tipped off. She knows it’s Dell Brant.

  She’s not after the baby job. She’s after him.

  The elevator stops at my floor, but I press floor 39 instead. I have to buy some time.

  “So you know Dell Brant?” I ask.

  Now her eyes narrow. “Why do you want to know?” she asks in a low voice.

  I knew it.

  I picture Grace crying while he’s bending this girl over his navy striped bed, and I press level 30 just before we get to it.

  The elevator stops.

  The woman’s perfectly groomed eyebrows lift. “Confused?”

  I grab her arm and drag her into the hall.

  “What are you doing?” she insists, but she can’t fight me too well in the tall shoes and tight skirt. When I shove her toward a chair, she sits.

  “Are you his ex or something?” she asks.

  “No, I’m …” What am I? What should I tell her? “I’m helping him hire the nanny.”

  “I don’t care about the job,” she says. “I have every intention of being next on his list.” She tries to stand up, but I block her.

  “What list?”

  “His just-fucked list, honey. Don’t worry about the baby. A friend of mine works at Honey Bear Kids, and she’ll take care of it. I just want the man.”

  I’m still stuck on the idea of his list. “You just want to sleep with him?”

  “Everybody wants a little time on his arm,” she says. “He won’t stick with anyone, but once Dell has chosen you, doors open. Lots of doors.”

  This is wild. What doors? Should I ask her? Would she say?

  I decide to crush her dreams instead. “He already hired some young college girl.”

  Her face pales. “He went all Christian Grey?”

  I shrug. I realize that now she’s out of the elevator, she can’t get access to the 40th floor again. I’ll go down, tell doorman Harry that someone is trying to get to Dell, and she’ll never make it.

  Her face rearranges into resolve. “I’m going anyway,” she says. “I’m okay with competition.”

  “Do your best,” I say. I move to the elevator and hit the down arrow.

  She’s placated and pauses by a mirror to check her hair and lipstick.

  The doors open. I step in. By the time a rising elevator comes and she realizes she’s screwed, I’ll have tipped off Harry.

  My work here is done.

  Except to figure out how she got the interview in the first place.

  When I arrive at my spa, parents have begun to arrive. I greet as always, smiling and shaking hands. I stop by the baby room, where Maria is handing over a baby and charming his mother. She’s going to work out perfectly.

  Dell is wrong about people. Maria totally botched her interview, but I gave her a chance anyway. Sometimes people just need an opportunity to prove themselves.

  Finally, there is a lull, so I head to the foyer to talk to Taylor. She’s waving good-bye to one of the families.

  “Did Dell find a nanny?” she asks.

  “I think so. Helen, the college girl, was great.”


  “She sounded nice. I sort of remembered her from a few sub days she did. I’m sorry the third one couldn’t come tonight.”

  “It’s fine.” I lean close over the tall desk. “Who was the second one? The 5:00?”

  “I didn’t get her name. When I called the other child-care places like you asked, someone at Honey Bear Kid Care said they had the perfect girl.”

  “Did you give Dell’s name?” I ask.

  Taylor’s eyes get big. “I may have accidentally mentioned that he owned our building.”

  So it wasn’t too hard to figure out.

  “I’m sorry, Arianna.” She twists a piece of blond hair as if she’s worried I will fire her.

  “It is what it is,” I say.

  She’s just a girl. She shouldn’t have sensitive information. Dell was the one who walked in here himself. Although he really didn’t have a lot of choice at that moment.

  I picture all the different versions of him I saw throughout the day. Stiff, perfectly dressed Dell from this morning. Frantic, anxious Dell when he realized he was stuck. Angry, protective Dell after Grace got her shots. And fun shopping Dell at the baby store.

  But the one that still sticks with me is the last one. Condescending, judgmental Dell. Assuming his accomplishments were greater than mine or anyone else’s.

  Good riddance.

  Chapter 15: Dell

  Five o’clock comes and goes and no nanny.

  The baby swing has worked amazingly well, and Grace has either slept or stayed mesmerized by the light-up toys ever since Arianna left. Best purchase I made today, despite that woman trying to talk me out of it.

  I’m not sure what to do. Night is coming and I’m Googling “How to take care of a baby” to make sure I know all the salient points. Bernard has contacted a few nanny agencies himself, but no one is sending out anyone for interviews before tomorrow.

  “Late night baby care” got us no hits other than hospitals.

  I can only sit in the chair near her and wait for her to wake up. Then figure out what’s wrong. Then how to fix it. I pass the time reading the Wiki on “How to change a diaper.”

  It’s oddly specific.

  The house is quiet. Bernard does whatever Bernard does while not assisting me. Maximillion is probably napping. It’s his retirement.

  Is this parenting? Hours of boredom punctuated by fifteen minutes of being frantic?

  The housekeeper arrives with stacks of clean, perfectly folded baby clothes. I’ve never been more relieved to see a woman in my life. She’s perfect, a grandmotherly sort, stout, friendly faced, dressed comfortably. Her hands are strong. She obviously doesn’t fear messes.

  I stand up, putting on my most charming smile. We’ve never spoken more than five words before today, but I need her more than I’ve ever needed anyone.

  “Chenille?” I say.

  “Shannon,” she corrects patiently.

  “You have been amazing,” I say. “Just amazing today. What I need, and I really mean need, is for someone to stay the night here tonight and help with the baby.”

  When her forehead crumples, I plead harder. “I thought I would have a nanny. But I don’t. And I’ve never even been around a baby. I have no idea what to do.”

  She holds out her plump hands. “Mr. Brant, I would love to watch the sweet bairn, but my husband needs me. He can’t get around the house. I have to feed him dinner, help him to bed.”

  “I see,” I say. I can’t exactly ask a woman with an infirm husband to abandon him. “I just don’t know the least thing about feeding or cleaning an infant.”

  “Oh, it’s not so hard,” she says. “Just give them the bottle and burp ’em real good. If they dirty the diaper, wipe ’em down with a soft cloth and fasten on a new one.” She glances around the room. “You’ve got everything you need.”

  Then she frowns. “’Cept a rocking chair. You really could use one of those. Isn’t anything that’ll settle a crying baby better’n a good rock in a pair of loving arms.”

  Right. Rocking chair. We should have picked one up at that store. They had that set that Arianna loved so much.

  Arianna. Her spa. That baby room had rocking chairs. Maybe I can borrow one for the night. Then buy one tomorrow.

  “Thank you, Chenille — sorry, Shannon. I’ll try to pick one up.”

  She pats me on the arm. “You’ll do fine. A father’s instincts kick in just like a mother’s.”

  Shannon turns and heads out, and I’m alone again.

  I head for the door. I can tell myself that it’s just the chair I want, but if that were true, I’d send Bernard after it. Or call one of the doormen to fetch it.

  I know better. It’s Arianna herself that I need. I’ve screwed up. I’ll own it. I’ll make it right.

  I’m all the way to the elevator when Bernard calls out.

  “Sir?”

  I punch the button with aggravation. “What is it, Bernard?”

  “You’ve forgotten something again.”

  Shit. The baby must be awake. Is she going to cry every single time I leave the room?

  I hurry back inside the penthouse and down the hall.

  She’s still in the space pod swing, her face red. She gives out two or three good cries, then pauses to take in a breath before starting another set.

  I unbuckle the belt and lift her out. “What is it, Grace?” I do the up-and-down bob thing again, but it doesn’t work this time.

  I cradle her in my elbow, turned in at the proper angle, and move her fist to her mouth.

  This does nothing.

  “Bernard!” I call. “Can you bring a bottle?”

  My butler is as slow as he’s ever been in the history of my employ. After long excruciating minutes of blood-curdling cries, he appears with the formula. 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. Arianna said she was gassy. I’ll have to burp her. I remember the moment at the store and snatch up one of the newly laundered cloths. Yes, I have it. I’m on this. I can do it.

  The cloth slides over my shoulder and I bring Grace up. I pat her back.

  Nothing happens. No sailor burp.

  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. Didn’t Arianna say we’d need something to help her? Some sort of drops?

  I head into the bathroom and sort through drawers, scattering pacifiers, baby wash, baby powder, baby lotion, baby shampoo. Did everything come in baby form? Seriously?

  But no drops. I guess we forgot to get them.

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

  She’s sick. I knew it. I’ll sue that doctor for incompetence. 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, like Arianna did at the store in that magic happy moment.

  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.

  The elevator is blessedly close to the top.

  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.

  Jesus, it’s my building. I am seriously going to install a goddamn private elevator for the penthouse.

  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.