Page 12 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant (Shared by the Carter Brothers #1)

GRANT

Her response was short. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

Emily's excited voice carries from the kitchen where she's talking to her stuffed animals about the new nanny. Her happiness twists the knife of guilt deeper. I hired Ivy to care for my daughter, not to complicate my already complicated life.

"Good morning," Ivy says, her voice neutral, professional.

She looks different today. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she's wearing jeans and an oversized chambray shirt, soft and broken-in—practical clothes for chasing after a five-year-old. It shouldn’t catch me off guard, but it does. How achingly beautiful she is, even like this.

"Morning," I reply, stepping back to let her in but not inviting further conversation. I don't meet her eyes as she passes, catching only the faint scent of something floral—shampoo, maybe.

"Emily's finishing up her breakfast," I say, gesturing toward the kitchen. "She's excited you're here."

I maintain a careful distance as we walk to the kitchen, where Emily sits at the table, syrup smeared across her chin as she works through a stack of pancakes.

"Ivy!" Emily shouts, waving her sticky hands. "Daddy made pancakes 'cause it's Wednesday!"

"Wednesday is pancake day," I explain unnecessarily, busying myself with wiping down the counter. "It's a tradition."

"That sounds like a wonderful tradition," Ivy says, her voice warming as she addresses Emily. She hasn't looked directly at me since arriving.

I clear my throat. "Emily's schedule is on the refrigerator. She has her rec class at the library at three, so you'll need to have her there by 2:45. The library is about ten minutes away—you know where it is, right? Emergency contacts are there too."

Ivy nods, reaching for the piece of paper magnetized to the fridge.

"I'll be back around six," I continue, focusing on zipping up my laptop bag. "Feel free to text if you have any questions, but Emily can show you where everything is. She knows the routine."

"We'll be fine," Ivy says, finally meeting my eyes. There's something there—not longing exactly, but a certain resolve. "Won't we, Emily?"

Emily nods enthusiastically, mouth full of pancake. "We're gonna have so much fun!"

I nod stiffly. "Great. I'll see you both tonight then."

I drop a quick kiss on the top of Emily's head and grab my coffee mug, dumping the cold contents in the sink. I feel Ivy watching me as I shrug on my jacket.

"Have a good day at work," she says, her tone professional but not cold.

"Thanks," I reply, not turning around. I don't trust myself to look at her again. "You too."

The door closes behind me with a decisive click.

In my truck, I sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.

What the hell was I thinking, kissing her?

It was her first day on the job. I'd known her for less than eight hours.

And now I've created an uncomfortable situation for everyone involved.

I start the engine and back out of the driveway, catching a glimpse of Emily and Ivy through the kitchen window.

Emily is showing Ivy something, her small hands gesturing wildly.

Ivy's head is bent toward her, listening intently.

The sight makes my chest ache with a peculiar mix of relief and regret.

The drive to Carter Ridge seems unusually long today. Maybe it’s because I’m driving at a slower pace than usual, or perhaps my thoughts are elsewhere, or maybe it's simply that I'd prefer to be anywhere else but at work.

As I park, I notice most of the staff cars are already in the lot. I'm usually the first to arrive.

Inside, conversations halt as I walk through the door. Lisa, the front desk assistant, straightens in her chair and quickly minimizes whatever she was looking at on her computer.

"Good morning, Mr. Carter," she says, her smile too bright. "The quarterly reports are printed and on your desk, and the Henderson family called to confirm their reservation for next weekend."

I nod without returning her smile. "Did you follow up with the Millers about their complaint?"

Lisa's smile falters. "Yes, I sent them the email we discussed with the discount offer for their next stay."

"Let me see it," I say, holding out my hand.

"I—well, I already sent it, but I can forward you a copy?—"

"In the future, I'd like to review these before they go out," I say, my tone sharper than necessary. "The language we use with dissatisfied customers is critical."

Lisa's face falls. "Of course. I'm sorry."

I know I'm being unfair. Lisa has been handling customer correspondence for three years without issue. But today, every small misstep feels magnified.

I continue to my office, stopping by the marketing desk where Jake is working on designs for our fall campaign.

"Those colors are all wrong," I say, glancing at his monitor. "We agreed on a more subdued palette. This looks like a summer camp advertisement, not a wilderness retreat."

Jake blinks in surprise. "I thought we decided to go brighter for the fall campaign? To contrast with the early snow?"

"That's not what I approved," I say, even though I have a vague recollection of exactly that conversation. "Fix it before the team meeting."

By midmorning, I've critiqued the new booking software implementation, questioned the cleaning staff's supply orders, and sent back the draft of our newsletter twice for rewrites.

The office atmosphere has shifted from its usual comfortable buzz to a tense silence punctuated only by careful keyboard clicking and hushed phone conversations.

I'm reviewing the monthly finances when there's a knock at my office door. Cole walks in without waiting for an answer, closing the door behind him.

"Who lit the fire under your ass today?" he asks, dropping into the chair across from my desk.

"Good morning to you too," I mutter, not looking up from my spreadsheet.

"Seriously, Grant. Lisa looks like she's about to cry, Jake is redoing work he already finished last week, and I just passed two of the housekeeping staff whispering about whether they should report a maintenance issue to you or wait until you're in a better mood."

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. "I'm just trying to maintain our standards."

"Bullshit," Cole says easily. "You're taking something out on the staff, and they don't deserve it. Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," I say, my jaw tight.

Cole studies me for a moment, his amber eyes—so like our mother's—narrowing slightly. "How's the new nanny working out? You seemed to like her yesterday."

My fingers tense on my keyboard. "She's fine."

"Just fine? Because when I stopped by yesterday afternoon, Emily couldn't stop talking about how 'Miss Ivy knows how to make paper birds that really fly' and how she's 'the prettiest lady ever.'"

"Emily's easily impressed," I say, avoiding his gaze—and brushing aside the annoyance, because even though Cole checks in on Emily often, it always feels like he’s really checking on the nannies.

"And what about you?" Cole asks, that mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. "Were you impressed? She's certainly easy on the eyes."

"She's Emily's nanny," I say firmly. "That's all."

"Hmm," Cole says, unconvinced. "Well, whatever's bothering you, you should deal with it. Maybe you need a night out. When was the last time you went to town for something other than groceries or hardware?"

I shake my head. "I don't need a night out."

"Sure you do. We could hit up The Antler tonight. Have a beer, play some pool. The nanny could stay a couple hours extra."

"No," I say immediately, the thought of asking Ivy for anything beyond her normal duties making my stomach clench. "I don't want to impose."

"It's called overtime, Grant. People do it all the time." Cole leans forward. "You haven't had a break in months. You're wound so tight you're about to snap."

"I'm fine," I insist.

Cole throws up his hands. "Suit yourself. If you want to live a miserable life, that's your choice. But don't go around making other people's lives miserable as well."

The words hit harder than he probably intends. I look up, meeting his gaze for the first time. "Is that what I'm doing?"

His expression softens slightly. "Today? Yeah, you are. And it's not like you, Grant. You're usually a hardass, but a fair one. Today you're just being a jerk."

I look down at my desk, at the papers covered in red pen marks where I've critiqued every minor flaw. The irritation that's been driving me all morning suddenly deflates, leaving me feeling hollow.

"You're right," I admit quietly. "I'll apologize to the team."

Cole nods, seemingly satisfied. "Good. And whatever's really bothering you—maybe try dealing with that too."

“That’s none of your business,” I mutter, sharper than I mean to.

He rises to leave, pausing at the door. "The offer stands, by the way. Anytime you want to grab a beer, just say the word."

After he's gone, I sit back in my chair and stare at the ceiling.

The real problem isn't something I can fix with an apology or a night out.

It's the memory of Ivy's lips against mine, the startled look in her blue eyes afterward, and the immediate regret that followed—not because it wasn't good, but because it was too good.

Because for a moment, I forgot about being a widower, a single father, a business owner with responsibilities. I just felt like a man again.

And that terrifies me.

I reach for my phone, thumb hovering over Ivy's contact information.

I should check in, make sure everything's going well with Emily.

That would be the responsible thing to do.

Instead, I set the phone down and turn back to my computer.

There are invoices to review, emails to answer, a business to run.

Everything else—everything complicated—can wait.