Page 1 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant (Shared by the Carter Brothers #1)

IVY

I didn’t mean to come back here. Not really.

But here I am, curled up on the front porch swing of my parents’ farmhouse, watching the heat ripple over the fields like the earth itself is exhaling.

Everything smells like hay and wildflowers and memory.

The wind chimes tinkle just like they did when I was fifteen and dreaming of the day I’d leave this place behind.

And now? Twenty-five, unemployed, semi-humiliated, and back in my childhood bedroom. So, yeah. Not exactly thriving.

“You look like you just got dumped by a country song,” Caleb says, stepping onto the porch with two beers in hand.

I glance up at him and pull my hoodie tighter around me. “You’re a terrible therapist.”

He grins, and the sun catches the golden stubble along his jaw. Caleb Carter has always been annoyingly good-looking—rugged in that effortless, mountain-town way. Tousled dark-blond hair, warm brown eyes, tan forearms dusted with trail dirt. He smells like pine and gasoline and fresh air.

And of course, he has no idea the effect he has. Or maybe he does and just pretends not to.

“Not a therapist,” he says, handing me one of the bottles. “Just a guy with beer and great timing.”

I hesitate. “It’s the middle of the day,” I say. “Some people are still at work, you know.”

He rolls his eyes. “And you’re already brooding. Impressive.”

I take the beer and hold it, cool against my palms. “So what brings you by? Here to deliver tough love and unsolicited advice?”

He drops into the chair across from me and stretches out his legs, ankle hooked over knee. “Maybe. Depends. You gonna tell me what really happened in Portland?”

I exhale through my nose. “I quit.”

“You mean you flung your ID badge across the office and dramatically exited the building after someone insulted your outfit and spilled coffee on your laptop?”

I squint at him. “Did Ben tell you that?”

He shrugs, smirking. “I have sources.”

“I quit after my boss told me I wasn’t ‘on brand’ anymore,” I mutter. “And my roommate adopted another cat. Which peed in my suitcase.”

He winces. “That’s dark.”

“You don’t even know,” I say, thinking about the real reason: my boss was also my ex. We broke up after I found out he was seeing someone else. After that, he kept finding flaws with my work. Honestly, I had never been passionate about the job in the first place. So I decided to walk away.

Caleb stares at me for a second, probably waiting for me to say more, but he doesn’t press. And I’m grateful for that.

We fall into an easy rhythm, sipping beer as the noon sun beats down, warm and golden.

The light is stronger now, splashing sharp angles across the barn and making the grass glow a vivid green.

It’s almost annoyingly beautiful out here.

Silvercreek always was. I just never thought I’d end up back in it.

“So,” Caleb says eventually. “What’s the plan?”

“Plan is to panic silently and apply for jobs I don’t want.”

“Solid. Foolproof.”

“I’m not working at the diner again. I swear, if someone asks me if the apple pie is ‘house made’ one more time, I will physically combust.”

He chuckles, and I hate that it makes my stomach flutter. This is Caleb . I remind myself. Ben’s best friend. Practically family.

Except not.

“Good. Because I’ve got a better option.”

I narrow my eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a setup.”

“It’s a job. Temporary. Local. Kid-friendly.”

“Wait. What?”

He grins like he knows I’m going to hate what comes next. “Grant Carter needs a nanny.”

I stare at him. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Emily’s five. She’s sweet. Grant’s...”

“Not,” I finish the sentence for him. “Grant Carter. Grumpy Grant Carter. Your actual brother.”

Caleb lifts a shoulder. “Technically, yes.”

“Does he even speak to humans?”

“He grunts. Occasionally uses full sentences if coffee is involved.”

“I can’t believe you’re suggesting I work for him.”

“He’s not as bad as you remember. Just... overworked. He’s running the lodge, the cabins, the rentals—and trying to be a dad. It’s a lot.”

I glance out at the fields, at the big red barn across the road. “I remember his wife. Liz. She was really kind.”

“Yeah. Losing her broke something in him. He’s been trying to hold everything together ever since. And failing, if you ask me.”

A small ache pulls at my chest. I don’t know Grant well, but I remember the funeral. I remember how tightly he held his daughter’s hand, how hollow his eyes looked.

I glance at Caleb. “It’s just… I don’t want to be another person he pushes away.”

“You won’t be,” he says. “I think you’ll be the first person who tells him no—and makes him thank you for it.”

I huff. “That’s wildly optimistic.”

“Come on, Ivy. You’re good with kids. You’re sharp. You won’t take his crap. And Emily needs someone steady. Just give it a shot. Worst-case scenario? You quit. Again. But you’ll get paid in the meantime.”

I take another sip of beer, thinking. It’s not like I have a better offer. And I hate feeling like a burden. Maybe... maybe helping someone else will help me, too.

“Fine,” I say at last. “I’ll meet him. But if he growls at me, I’m out.”

Caleb smirks. “Deal. But if I were you, I’d start practicing my poker face now.”

After Caleb heads back down the drive, I stay on the porch swing a little longer, cradling my half-warm beer like it has answers.

The sun is leaning westward now, washing the hills in long, syrupy light.

The shadows of the trees stretch long across the orchard like they’re reaching for something they’ll never quite catch.

The trees look tired. My parents do, too.

The late frost this spring wiped out almost half the crop.

They won’t say it out loud—won’t use words like struggling or barely getting by —but I see it in the way Dad moves slower in the morning, how Mom’s been baking pies for the café on the side like it’s a hobby and not a lifeline.

And I hate that I don’t know how to help. Or worse, that I’m not sure I want to.

I could ask them for more time. For another chance to figure things out while hiding under their roof. I could pretend this place is enough. That I am. But I won’t. They’ve already given me more than they should’ve.

Silvercreek, a mountain town in southwestern Colorado, is the kind of town where time doesn’t really move—it loops.

Nestled near the San Juan Mountains, there’s one road in and out, and it winds past shuttered cabins and aging fences, then curls around Mirror Lake like a ribbon someone tied too tight.

The town is small, but main Street has it all: a post office, a diner, a hardware store, a library, a bar, and a coffee shop that doubles as a bookstore—and you’re more likely to run into your fifth-grade teacher than someone new.

The mountains here are steep and unforgiving. The winters are long. The locals are proud and rooted and suspicious of anything that changes too quickly.

I used to hate it.

I used to walk these orchard rows with dirt under my fingernails and daydream about cities with high-rises and gallery openings and brunch menus that didn’t include the word “gravy.” I used to imagine getting out of here like it was the finish line of a race.

Ben was the same way—just smarter about it.

He left right after hight school, didn’t look back.

He’s in Fort Collins now, doing some government job with a title I never remember and a mission that involves a lot of environmental data and field gear.

Water samples, satellite imagery, endangered frogs.

That kind of thing. Saving the planet one spreadsheet at a time.

He’s the good one. The driven one. The one who knew what he wanted and actually became it.

I’m happy for him. I am.

But me? I’m back where I started—wearing the same hoodie I packed for college, eating cereal out of a chipped bowl that still has my name on the bottom in Sharpie. Trying to convince myself this is temporary. That this is a detour and not the end of the road.

But sometimes, in the quiet, I wonder if I ever really left at all.

By the time the heat settles heavy over the barn roof, I’m back inside, sorting apples into crates.

The air inside is warm and smells like old wood, cider, and dust. A box fan hums from the corner, rattling slightly every time it rotates toward the worktable.

I tug on gloves that are too big and already stained, then slide a shallow bin toward me.

Gala apples, bruised but salvageable, most of them small and a little misshapen.

Too ugly for the produce stand. Good enough for cider, if we can find someone to buy.

Mom stands across from me, sorting her own batch with absent-minded ease. Her hair is pinned up under a sun hat, and a pencil rests behind one ear like always. We don’t talk much as we work. We never have. There’s something about this place that encourages silence. Thought. Stillness.

I set aside an apple with a long gash down one side and stare at the pile in front of me.

The funny thing is. I’ve never forgotten this place—the farm, the town, Silvercreek.

It’s always in the back of my mind, no matter where I am.

I used to daydream about this place when I lived in Portland—romanticize it when I was overtired and blinking at a screen at midnight.

I'd think, at least at home the work is honest. No meetings that could’ve been emails.

No smug thirtysomethings who treated me like a barista with Adobe skills.

No passive-aggressive creative director or ex telling me my work had “nice energy” but lacked “modern playfulness.”

God, what a nightmare.

Officially, I was a junior designer. But that didn’t mean what it should’ve.

It meant I was also the copywriter, the production assistant, the social media intern, and occasionally the in-office therapist. My job was supposed to be creating brand kits and campaign visuals.

Instead, I got stuck designing fake logos for clients who never paid on time, managing four Instagram accounts, and writing perky product captions for people who sold artisanal deodorant.

I wanted to care. I really did.

But the longer I stayed, the more invisible I felt. So, in a way, quitting was inevitable.

“I think we’ll have six crates total,” Mom says, jolting me back. She lifts one carefully onto the back shelf.

I nod, dropping a dented apple into the reject bin. “The ones I’ve done are good for cider. Maybe the diner’ll take another batch?”

“Maybe.” She sounds tired. Not just physically tired. Season tired. Year tired. Life-tired. “Mr. Thomason said they’ll cut back on their order this week. Something about too much inventory.”

“Oh.”

We fall back into silence.

A fly buzzes around my elbow. I swat it away, then glance at the old chalkboard on the wall that still has our family schedule from two seasons ago scrawled on it. Farmer’s Market. Mulch delivery. School fundraiser. I almost ask if I should clean it off. But I don’t.

“Do you think Dad needs help fixing the irrigation line later?” I ask.

Mom shakes her head. “He’s already out there. You’ll just get in his way.”

I smirk. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You’re more useful in here. That’s not an insult.”

It doesn’t sting, exactly. But it lands.

I sort three more apples before saying, “I’m not trying to make this permanent.”

“I know.”

“It’s just temporary. Until I figure something out.”

“Ivy.” Mom’s voice softens. “We understand. We love having you home. You don’t have to help with anything. It’s not like we’re busy. You could just rest—and like you said, take some time to figure things out.”

I nod, but it doesn’t help. The guilt still presses heavy on my chest. Like I should be doing more. Like I should be able to fix everything—or at least fix myself.

Outside, the wind picks up and carries the smell of the orchard through the slats in the barn wall—sweet and sharp and fading.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Caleb:

Still serious about the job. Come meet Grant tomorrow. 8 a.m.

I stare at the message for a few seconds. Then I look down at my gloves, stained pink with apple juice, and the stack of crates we’ve managed to fill between us.

I don’t know if I want the job. I don’t know if I want any job right now.

But I do know I can’t keep standing still.

I type back: Fine. But if he growls, I’m walking.