Single Dad On Top and Plus One Duet

BOOK 1: SINGLE DAD ON TOP
Top 10 bestseller in Rom Coms

Billionaire bachelor, meet your secret baby.
Instructions not included.

I'm always on top.
My penthouse.
My corporate office above Manhattan.
And, of course, the women in my life.

Actually, I might choose any position.

But make no mistake. I choose. I control.
My life is mine.

Which is why I'm not sure what the hell 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, damn.


BOOK 2: SINGLE DAD PLUS ONE

The sequel to the wildly popular romantic comedy SINGLE DAD ON TOP.

Arianna wants to meet my parents.

They live in a trailer. Dad thinks Playboy T-shirts are classy because the naked women are silhouettes. Mom has a tattoo of a dog humping a palm tree. I don't think either one has said a sentence without an f-bomb since 1985.

I changed my name a long time ago. Started a new life with a clean slate and never looked back.

I don't know how to mend that bridge.

Or why there's a pig-on-a-spit at their surprise engagement party.

Or how Arianna and I ended up wearing matching "Ball and Chain" bride and groom shirts.

But you don't get to choose your parents.

And in my family, crazy is definitely relative.

Chapter One: 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.

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 precisely 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.