Page 11 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant (Shared by the Carter Brothers #1)

IVY

A t the dinner table, my mom ladles out stew and passes around warm cornbread like everything is exactly the same as it always was. The scent of rosemary and garlic fills the kitchen, and for a second, I can almost pretend today wasn’t weird.

My dad, still in his dusty work shirt and with sun-reddened skin from the day, glances up as I sit.

“So? First day on the job?” he asks.

I pause. “Good. Emily’s sweet. Smart. And… exhausting.”

My mom looks up from the stew pot, her brow already furrowing.

“It all went okay today? Grant didn’t change his mind again?”

“It did,” I say, reaching for a piece of cornbread. “No, he didn’t change his mind again.”

She sets the ladle down with a soft clink, still eyeing me.

“He seemed serious when he came by, but I wasn’t sure you’d actually go through with it.”

“Yeah he was,” I say, avoiding Mom’s observant eyes. “I think I’m going to stick with it for a while.”

My dad chuckles. “I’m glad to hear it. The Carter boys are good folks. Hardworking. I’ve always liked Grant. Shame about his wife.”

“Liz,” my mom says quietly. “That poor girl.”

There’s a silence that settles for a beat. Then Mom lifts her spoon again. “I’ve always thought Caleb was the nicest of the three,” she adds. “I wonder why he hasn’t settled down yet.”

Something in her tone makes me glance up sharply. “You think Caleb should get married?”

“Why not?” she says. “He’s kind, good with animals, owns land. That boy would make a great husband.”

My curiosity gets the better of me. “Do you think he’s seeing someone?”

She shakes her head. “Not that I know of. I’ve only ever seen him with a girl once, and that was years ago.”

My dad snorts. “He’s probably too busy. And besides, most of the girls his age have left town. Present company included.”

Mom eyes me for a second. Then, with a sudden brightness in her voice, she says, “You should invite Caleb to dinner one night.”

I nearly choke on my stew. “What? No. He’s just a friend. And Ben’s best friend, remember?”

“So?” my dad says. “Ben only comes home once a year. He’s not your chaperone.”

I press my lips together, cheeks burning. “I’m not asking Caleb out. That would be weird.”

My mom gives me a knowing look and pats my hand. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to be nice.”

I nod and bury my face in my bowl, pretending to focus on my food while my mind drifts somewhere else entirely.

A flicker of my high school self rears up, remembering the dumb little crush I used to nurse for Caleb Carter.

Tall, sweet, protective. The kind of boy who made you feel safe just by sitting near you on the school bus.

But that’s all it ever was—a harmless crush.

Caleb has always seen me as Ben’s kid sister. And nothing more.

Except… in the car earlier, there’d been something in the way he looked at me. A softness. And the way he spoke—calm, protective, steady. “If you ever need anything—seriously, anything—you call me.”

I blink, my spoon hovering midair.

No. I shake the thought away. I’m reading too much into it. Caleb’s just being Caleb. Warm, loyal, kind. That’s who he’s always been. It doesn’t mean he’s seeing me any differently.

Still, the memory lingers longer than I want it to. I shove a bite of stew into my mouth and try to push it all back where it belongs—into the past.

Caleb Carter is off-limits. Just like his brother.

And I’m not about to start falling for another Carter man.

After dinner, I help my mom clear the table and wash the dishes. We don’t talk much—just the usual passing of clean plates and folded dish towels. She hums quietly under her breath, like everything’s normal. Like she didn’t just suggest I give Caleb a chance five minutes ago.

Once the last dish is stacked and the counter wiped clean, my parents settle into the living room, the soft murmur of the TV trailing down the hallway as I retreat to my bedroom.

I close the door and lean back against it, letting out a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Dinner went as expected—Mom’s not-so-subtle matchmaking, Dad’s quiet approval of me working for Grant.

But all through the stew and warm cornbread, I could barely taste a thing.

My thoughts kept circling back to Grant.

The press of his lips against mine. The way his hands curled around my waist like he was afraid to let go.

And the worst part—the part I can’t shake—is how fast I pulled away from the one thing I wanted most.

My cheeks flush hot at the memory. It was just this afternoon—my first day as Emily's nanny—and I've already crossed a line that shouldn't be crossed. I push away from the door and grab my towel from the hook on the back. A shower. That's what I need to clear my head.

The bathroom is just as I left it years ago when I went off to college—pale blue tiles, the shower curtain with little seahorses that Mom refuses to replace, the mirror with a slight crack in the top right corner from when I accidentally threw a hairbrush at it during a teenage tantrum.

I turn on the shower, letting steam fill the room while I begin to undress.

I pull my sweatshirt over my head, tousling my blonde hair. As I unbutton my jeans, I catch myself in the mirror—blue eyes staring back, questioning. What are you doing, Ivy? First day on the job and you're kissing your boss? But it wasn't just me. He kissed me back. No, he kissed me first.

The jeans fall to the floor, and I step out of them, left in just my bra and underwear. My skin prickles with goosebumps despite the growing warmth in the bathroom. I unclasp my bra, letting it drop to the floor, and hook my thumbs into the waistband of my underwear, sliding them down my legs.

Now I stand naked before the mirror, and I can't help but wonder—what did Grant see when he looked at me? My body is familiar to me, the slight curve of my hips, the small, firm breasts. But suddenly I'm seeing myself through new eyes. His eyes.

I close my own eyes, and it happens so naturally—Grant is behind me, his presence so vivid in my imagination that I swear I can feel the heat of him.

I imagine his hands sliding around my waist, larger than mine, rougher.

In my mind, he presses his lips to the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, and I tilt my head to give him better access.

"You're beautiful," I imagine him whispering, his breath hot against my ear.

His hands move upward, cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they harden beneath his touch.

I mirror the fantasy with my own hands, touching myself as I imagine he would—confident, assured, knowing exactly what I want without me having to say a word.

My breath quickens. I open my eyes and see my reflection—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes dark with desire. The girl in the mirror looks like someone else, someone bolder than the Ivy who fled from Grant's kitchen in panic.

The shower has been running all this time, filling the bathroom with a thick fog that softens the edges of my reflection. I step into the tub, letting the hot water cascade over me. It feels good, washing away the day—but not the memory of Grant's kiss. That lingers, burning brighter than before.

I close my eyes again, tilting my face up to the spray. Water streams down my body, and in my mind, it's Grant's hands following those same paths. I lean against the cool tile wall, one hand bracing myself as the other traces down my stomach.

"What the hell are you doing to me?" I whisper to the empty bathroom, to the phantom Grant who exists only in my head. But it feels so real—the way I imagine him pressed against me, his chest to my back, his growing hardness evident against me.

My fingers drift lower, finding the slick heat between my legs that has nothing to do with the shower.

I'm wet for him, for this man I barely know but who has already taken up residence in my thoughts.

I circle my clit slowly, teasing myself the way I imagine he would—taking his time, learning what makes me gasp.

In my fantasy, Grant's lips are at my ear again. "Is this what you want, Ivy?" His voice is gravel and honey, and even though it's just my imagination, I nod frantically.

"Yes," I breathe to the empty shower. "Please."

My fingers move faster now, more insistent. In my mind, it's Grant touching me, Grant's finger that slips inside me, testing, exploring. I arch my back, pushing against my own hand, wanting more.

The shower beats down on me, hot and steady, but it's nothing compared to the heat building inside me. I add another finger, curling them the way I like, the way I imagine Grant would if he were here, if he knew my body as intimately as I want him to.

"Make me come," I whisper, not caring that the name echoes slightly off the bathroom tiles. In my mind, he smiles against my skin, pleased that I'm saying his name like a prayer.

I'm close now, so close. My legs tremble, and I have to brace myself more firmly against the wall. In my fantasy, Grant knows—he can feel how close I am, and he's relentless, determined to push me over the edge.

"Let go," fantasy-Grant tells me. "I've got you."

And I do. The orgasm washes over me in waves, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out too loudly, conscious of my parents downstairs. My body pulses around my fingers, and I whisper Grant's name again and again as I ride out the pleasure.

Slowly, reality reasserts itself. The water begins to cool, and I quickly finish washing my hair and body before shutting off the shower.

I step out, grabbing my towel and wrapping it around me, feeling a mix of satisfaction and embarrassment.

What would Grant think if he knew what I'd just done?

How I'd used the memory of our brief kiss to fuel an elaborate fantasy?

I'm still drying off, rubbing the towel through my damp hair, when my phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. I pick it up, expecting a text from a friend, but the name that appears makes my heart skip: Grant.

I tap the notification with a slightly trembling finger.

“Ivy, I want to apologize for what happened today. It was completely inappropriate of me, and I promise it will never happen again. We need to keep our relationship professional for Emily's sake and yours. See you tomorrow morning, 8 am sharp.”

The warm, languid feeling from moments ago evaporates. I read the message again, trying to decode any hidden meaning, any hint that maybe he's just saying what he thinks he should say. But the words are clear, direct—he regrets the kiss. He wants to draw a line.

And he's right. Of course he's right. He's my employer.

And a great dad who cares about his daughter deeply.

What kind of person would I be if I complicated their lives because of some attraction I can't seem to control? And why do I even consider it? Haven’t I learned my lessons from my last relationship?

I wrap the towel more tightly around me, suddenly feeling exposed despite being alone. The fantasy version of Grant fades, replaced by the real one—a single father, my boss, someone who needs a reliable nanny for his daughter, not a complication.

I type out several responses before settling on the simplest one:

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

I hit send before I can overthink it, before I can tell him that I just came with his name on my lips, before I can admit that I ran not because I didn't want him but because I wanted him too much.

It's for the best, I tell myself as I set the phone down and continue drying off. Professional boundaries exist for a reason. I came back to Silvercreek to reset, to figure out my next move after Portland, not to fall for the first complicated man I meet.

But as I pull on my pajamas and crawl into my childhood bed, I can't help but replay that kitchen kiss one more time, wondering what might have happened if I hadn't run, if I'd stayed and let whatever was building between us catch fire.

"Stop it," I mutter to myself, punching my pillow into a more comfortable shape. "It's done."

I close my eyes, determined to sleep, to put Grant Carter and his soft lips and strong hands out of my mind. I need to remember that I'm Emily's nanny first and foremost, and nothing—not even the way her father looks at me, not even the heat that rises between us when we're close—can change that.

But as sleep finally claims me, it's Grant's face I see, Grant's touch I feel, and I know that keeping things professional is going to be harder than either of us wants to admit.