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

by JJ Knight

  He’s pushing Grace in one of the bucket swings. She laughs in a bright blue coat with the words “Future CEO” across the front. It’s a sample. He bought a children’s line from some manufacturer and made them change all the logos on the girls’ wear.

  Max bounds around the park, chasing birds and leaping around like a squirrel. Every time Grace sees him, she lets out her little baby laugh.

  Dell spots me. “How did it go?”

  “I got kicked out,” I say. “It’s only for single ladies looking for their next love affair.”

  “Huh,” he says. “That figures.” He leans down to kiss me. “You feel better now that you know?”

  “Sure.” I watch Grace’s beaming face as she moves forward and back in the swing.

  “You going to the spa now? It’s your day to work.”

  Dell and I have both gone part-time, alternating days off so we don’t need a nanny. “It’s nice outside,” I say. “I think I’ll just stay here with you two.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Dell says.

  Grace babbles a little more. According to the birth certificate, she is eight months old today. We have kept her middle name Galina to honor the family who holds her secret. We hold out hope that one day, when she is grown, the Duchess will be able to acknowledge the daughter we have raised on her behalf.

  But for now, it’s just the three of us.

  A beautiful baby.

  A much more chilled-out mom.

  And the single dad who taught me to dream big, love hard, and never be afraid to create your own definition of being on top.

  For a list of all books and projects by JJ,

  click here for JJ Knight on Amazon.

  Thank you for reading!

  Love, JJ

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  LOVE single dad books?

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  Enjoy this sneak peek of FIGHT FOR HER.

  This series hit the USA Today bestseller list last year.

  Thank you for being a fan!

  Love, JJ Knight

  Chapter One

  I can take this guy.

  The screaming of the crowd is a dull background roar as I circle the floor of the fight cage with Farmhand.

  He’s new to this level of competition. In his pregame interview, he said he would step on any karate kid who got in his way of qualifying for the pro leagues.

  Not today.

  My MMA name, Power Play, didn’t come from some suit with a marketing plan. I earned it with a fighting style my trainer likes to call “Coming from nowhere.” I make them get lazy by appearing to have a pattern in my kicks and strikes.

  Then I take them down in one surprise move.

  Farmhand is strong, but his kicks have no finesse. He tries to deliver a sloppy roundhouse, so I grab his knee and twist him to the ground like flipping a baby gator.

  He jumps back up, though. He’s got some stamina.

  Unfortunately he’s about to try the same lame trick. His tells are louder than a Vegas sports coat. He shifts his weight, eyes on the spot he’s aiming for.

  Before his shinbone can even land the strike, I have him on his belly, arm behind his back, in a submission hold that you can break free from only if your legs are stronger than mine.

  And his aren’t.

  To make doubly sure the ref will call the win, I deliver three hard knee strikes to his ribs. If Farmhand doesn’t defend himself in this position, the ref will end the fight even if the lughead refuses to tap out.

  I hold and wait, sweat dripping from my forehead. My arms are shaking, but Farmhand is pinned, and I’m not letting go. He’s already gone a round longer than I planned for. I knee-strike again.

  The crowd erupts into cheers. The ref has called the match. I roll away and stand up.

  Farmhand’s pissed. He thinks he could have stayed in. His face is red and mottled as he screams at the ref. His trainer jumps in and drags him to the corner.

  Tough loss, baby.

  The ref lifts my arm, and Brazen, my trainer, runs up the stairs and into the cage.

  This arena is decent. The purse isn’t bad. I turn from one side of the stands to the other, pumping my fist in the air. It’s my moment. The training, the struggle, the crazy schedule. It’s all for this.

  The spotlight crisscrossing the crowd catches on a head full of blond curls. Somebody’s dragged a kid to the match. A little girl. She’s up on some guy’s shoulders and screaming with glee, caught in the excitement.

  My throat tightens. My own daughter, Lily, called me two nights ago, asking if I was coming to her birthday party this year. She’s about to be four, and I didn’t fly to see her when she turned three.

  The crowd is still going, but now I’m lost in the numbers. What will be left of tonight’s money? Can I get to New York to see her?

  While everyone hollers and snaps pictures, I run figures in my mind. Pay Brazen. Cover the crew. Make a payment on the new equipment. Rent and personal stuff.

  Then there’s that lawyer I have to pay after the damn situation with Colt and Jo. That alley fight that nearly killed them both. Stupid, getting involved in that.

  My stomach drops. It won’t be enough to take off a few days and fly across the country.

  Despite the win, I feel crushed. Maybe it’s time. Give up the dream. Do something that pays regular. With fewer expenses. Where I can have insurance and boring shit.

  And get to Lily.

  Brazen claps me on the back. Farmhand’s trainer forces him to come forward and shake my hand. He glares at me from a swollen eye. I haven’t made a friend today, that’s for sure.

  I follow Brazen down the steps and along the red carpet back to the dressing rooms. The medic will want to look at the cut over my eye, which gets reopened every fight. That’ll cost me.

  I love this life. Love fighting. Love the highs and even the lows. I know I’m lucky.

  But I haven’t seen Lily in almost two years.

  As we turn down a back hall, my post-win buzz drains like a toilet flush.

  LA to New York is a hell of a trip. Not only expensive on its own, but I have to miss a fight and an income if I go. This amateur league always schedules last minute. It’s impossible to plan anything.

  But my little girl is thousands of miles away.

  And she isn’t going to be little much longer.

  Brazen holds the door open to the dressing room.

  I hear a chorus of “Parker!” Several friends are already inside the room, drinking. They shake my hand, say congratulations.

  But all I can see is a little head with raven-black hair. She didn’t have a lot of words last time I saw her, but now, when I talk to her on the phone, she says whole sentences. Has entire ideas.

  She sounds like her mother. Maddie.

  Damn, my thoughts are dark tonight. I look around the room, trying to shake the blues.

  Some girl is talking in the corner, her back to me, and for a terrible moment, I think it’s Maddie. She has the same fall of black hair down her back. The same slender frame.

  But of course it isn’t. Maddie wouldn’t give me the time of day even if we were in the same zip code. Which we aren’t. Even if I wish we were.

  Biggest mistake of my life, letting her go.

  The medic shoves me on a stool and wipes blood from my forehead. The sting of it helps me stay grounded even though I can’t stop thinking about Maddie.

  She was the only girl I ever cared about. And the one I screwed up the most.

  Now she’s gone to New York, following her own dream of working for a big fashion designer. With my Lily.

  “You’re good,” the medic says. “You can hit the showers now.”

  I nod at the new influx of people who surge through the door. It might be my win, my party, my m
oment. But it feels hollow.

  Something has to change. Something has to give.

  What good is a life you love if it doesn’t have the people you love as part of it?

  Chapter Two

  The after-party is still raging hours later when I decide to take off from the bar.

  Two girls have been watching me, waiting to make a move. I saw them early on, the way they tried to catch my eye, crossing and recrossing their legs.

  One has short brown hair. She’s with another girl, but the friend is just support for her mission. Despite spending the whole night leaning over the rail by the dance floor, she never has worked up the courage to come over.

  Which is fine. Tonight I’m too damn distracted for women. And that’s saying something.

  The other girl is Cassie, a hyper bottle blonde with implants she clearly wants people to notice. Her cleavage is hypnotic, pushing up from a low-cut shirt like it’s her superpower.

  I wave at some of the other fighters who have gathered. Most of us get along fine, no matter who has been pummeled. Farmhand isn’t among them. I’m anxious to leave, to think, to plan. I want to call my friend Colt, or somebody else in the business, to figure out how to get my expenses down. Or my income up. Or something. Maybe I can move. Join a circuit on the East Coast to be closer to Lily. Stupid New York still has a ban on MMA, but there’s Jersey and a few other places just a train ride away.

  But that means starting at the bottom again. Crap purses. Small venues. Bad deals. I’ve gotten past all that only to find another glass ceiling. I have to make the pro league. I have to step up my game.

  The cool air outside is a blessed relief after the stuffy club, loud and crowded. The gravel crunches beneath my boots. Maybe I can do like Colt and ride a motorcycle instead of driving a car. That’ll save over half a grand a month. That’s a plane ticket right there.

  I weave between rows until I spot the stupid red Porsche. This car pisses me off. I bought it in a fit of feeling inferior after a girl — a stupid girl — laughed at my Honda. I guess she expected a Maserati or something.

  Ha. Not at my pay grade.

  But I went out and bought the damn thing. The payments are killing me. Then it got a massive baseball-bat-sized dent on the back corner outside the arena one night. No telling who did it. I can’t tell my insurance about it or they’ll raise the rate. I have to pay to fix it out of pocket.

  Damn it. I can’t enjoy anything.

  I hit the remote to unlock the door and hear a footstep. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and I whirl around, already in fight stance, ready to take on whatever’s back there.

  But it’s just Cassie.

  Great.

  She drops her shoulders back to make sure her silicone DDs are well displayed. Her blond hair shines in the night. Hell, maybe I will take her home.

  “I wasn’t quite ready to leave the party,” she purrs, sidling up to me, boobs first.

  How can she do that? Make her chest enter a zip code ahead of the rest of her?

  I lean back against the door of the Porsche.

  “I like your car,” she says. “Do I get a ride?” The smirk on her lips tells me the double meaning is intentional.

  Decision time. Brush her off or let her in?

  I glance over her outfit. Thin white silky shirt, clearly showing off the goods. No bra. The nip in the air makes that clear. Short skirt. Spike heels, but she manages them well even on the gravel.

  My phone buzzes.

  “You don’t want to take that now, do you?” She makes her move, pressing up against me.

  I shrug. Not sure who would call me at one in the morning after a fight. Still, just to piss her off, I tug the phone from my pocket.

  It’s Maddie’s number.

  I push Cassie off me and stride briskly away as I answer the call with a quick “What’s wrong? Is Lily okay?”

  But the voice isn’t my ex’s. It’s soft and high. “Daddy?”

  I halt in the gravel. “Lily? What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “My teacher read a scary story today.”

  My heart begins to slow down. “So you can’t sleep?”

  “I think there’s something under my bed.”

  In my peripheral vision, I can see a pissed-off Cassie standing with her hip jutting out.

  I ignore her. “You want to know what Daddy does when he thinks there are monsters under the bed?”

  Her voice is a loud whisper. “What do you do?”

  “I get off the bed very carefully. Very quiet. Then I sneak over to the light switch. And I TURN THE LIGHT ON REAL FAST.”

  She giggles. “So you can see them?”

  “Oh, no.” I lean against a tree on the edge of the parking lot. “Turning on the lights makes them run away. They are afraid of little girls and if they see one, they get as far away as they can.”

  “Daddy, you’re silly.”

  “Didn’t you see Monsters, Inc.?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who were all the monsters afraid of?”

  “The girl.”

  “See? You going to try it?”

  “Okay.” Her voice gets a little muffled as she moves.

  I look over at my car. Cassie is still standing by it. I can tell from her body language she’s getting fed up. I’m apparently supposed to give her undivided attention. Whatever.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes, baby.”

  “I’m going to move the chair so I can reach.”

  “That’s my smart girl.”

  I hear a dragging sound. I wonder if Maddie is sleeping, and why Lily called me instead of going to her.

  Maybe she has a man over.

  My stomach roils. Of course she would. Men always follow her around. I crunched more than my share of jaws over her when we were together.

  But that’s the whole thing. She’s funny. And smart. And always had these huge dreams.

  I am just a big dumb fighter.

  Getting pregnant seemed to make her stronger. I had a cage match when she was about six months along. One with big winnings. The sort of thing you can build on.

  I had this idea that after I won, I would propose to her. It would be this dramatic moment. Huge win. Roaring crowd. Cheers. Maddie, all teary with happiness.

  But I had gotten cocky and challenged someone over my head.

  And I got creamed. Broken jaw and two cracked ribs.

  Maddie left. Just bolted like a startled deer. Said she couldn’t take it. Her aunt lived in Queens. So she moved and finished college up there.

  I wasn’t even around when Lily was born. Had no way to get there. No money. No way to do it.

  If I could change things, if I could go back in time, I would hitchhike. I would walk. I would sleep on benches, eat at homeless shelters, and find a way.

  But back then I had this stupid ego. This attitude that I had a big future ahead of me and she was trying to ruin it.

  And so I let her go.

  The phone makes a strange rustling sound.

  “Lily? You all right?” I ask.

  More rustling. I panic, picturing Lily taking a fall.

  “Parker, is that you on the line?” Now it’s Maddie talking. Lily must have gotten caught.

  “Yeah.” My pulse speeds up just hearing her voice. At times like this, I’m glad I haven’t seen her in two years. Nobody wants to constantly be face-to-face with their screwups.

  Maddie is and will probably always be my one true heartache.

  Lately, when she talks to me, before or after Lily has called, I hear this funny note like maybe she feels it too.

  It’s there now. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s late. I don’t know why Lily called you.”

  “Dads make better monster chasers, maybe.”

  Maddie laughs a little. “Probably so. Especially since you’re the big tough one.”

  The trees overhead shake with the wind, sending leaves showering down. It’s fall, the sam
e time of year we met. I rarely come up on the first chill of the season without thinking of her.

  “I need to get Lily back to sleep,” Maddie says. “I really am sorry she called you so late. She can be sneaky with my phone.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “Anytime.”

  “Well, goodnight,” she says.

  She’s already clicked to end the call by the time I can manage my own “Goodnight.”

  I shove the phone in my pocket. Damn. What a screwed-up world.

  “So…You all done now?”

  I had forgotten about Cassie.

  I whirl around. “Gotta run. My daughter needs me.”

  “You got a kid?” She looks disgusted.

  I move past her to the evil Porsche. “Yeah, I do.” I jump inside without a second thought.

  Cassie steps back, and gravel spins out from the wheels as I take off out of the lot.

  I don’t need that sort of distraction. Women like Cassie tend to be expensive, wanting fancy nights out, gifts, all that junk. I need to focus. Fix car. Sell car. Buy motorcycle. Get my career on some sort of real path.

  And get my ass to New York.

  Chapter Three

  Buster’s Gym is crazy packed the next morning. Saturdays bring out all the weekend athletes as well as the serious trainers who don’t miss a day.

  Buster himself sits behind the desk, his bald head shining like he just polished it. I run my hand over my burred hair a little self-consciously. Most fighters have shorn heads for practical reasons. The few who don’t have some sort of image they are trying to portray. I keep things simple.

  “Power Play!” Buster says. “Good to see you. Nice submission win last night. This one lasted two rounds.”

  He would mention that straightaway. Normally I sink an opponent in Round 1. “Yeah, he’s got a future.”

  “He won’t be climbing over you in the ranks, though,” Buster says. “Not after that.”

  “He might improve.”

  Buster nods. “Might. Colt’s in the back. Jo’s got a whole crew of cute girls. Just a heads up on that.” He winks. “I know you have an eye for pretty fighter girls.”