Page 2 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant (Shared by the Carter Brothers #1)

GRANT

“ D on’t just stand there—shut off the valve before you flood the whole line!”

Tanner blinks at me like I’ve just asked him to recite the periodic table in reverse.

"Uh... it’s the green one, right?" he says, already reaching for the red one.

"For the love of—no, not the red?—"

Too late.

I shove past him and twist the correct valve myself. It groans and gives, and the water pressure drops with a hiss. One last surge shoots out of the cracked coupling, soaking my jeans with icy-cold water.

I kneel in the mud, fingers numb, trying to assess the damage.

We’re behind cabin six—the newer one, the one with the cedar porch that Cole was supposed to fix last week.

The decorative stone edging is already shifting where the ground’s gotten too wet.

If we don’t fix this now, it’s going to rot out the subflooring, and we’ll have guests complaining about soft spots in the deck by Sunday.

“Cole was supposed to fix this,” I mutter to no one in particular. But I’m guessing he got distracted by a tourist in yoga pants again.

Tanner shuffles in the wet gravel behind me, no rush, no urgency.

"Should I... uh... grab a wrench or something?"

"No," I snap, already regretting the question. "Go find Cole. Ask if we’ve got a new half-inch fitting in the shop."

"Oh. Okay." He turns, already pulling out his phone—probably texting someone about how hard his day is going.

I sit back on my heels and rub my hands over my face. My jeans are soaked. My boots squelch when I shift. My patience is down to its final frayed nerve.

This used to be easier. Back when Dad was around.

Back when the crew was small but skilled, before we had to rely on temp workers who think plumbing means watching a how-to video.

The water line here isn’t even that complicated—just a main branching to a few outdoor spigots and a hot water heater in the crawlspace.

But if you don’t shut the right valve, the whole thing backs up, and then I’m the one waist-deep in freezing mud trying to keep the system from bursting. Again.

The Carter Ridge Retreat’s property stretches a good forty acres across the valley, just southeast of Mirror Lake. Ten cabins. A lodge. Three outbuildings. Horses. Gear. Equipment. A trailhead we maintain ourselves. That’s a lot of ground to cover with a skeleton crew and an off-season budget.

Now it’s just me, Caleb, and Cole running the damn place—Caleb handles the horses and the guests, Cole pretends he’s busy fixing things, and I get left with payroll, broken pipes, and patching up the incompetence.

Some days I wonder why I don’t just let it all fall apart and go live in a tent.

At least then the plumbing would be someone else’s problem.

We rely on a rotating cast of seasonal workers with more enthusiasm than experience, and even less sense.

Half of them disappear before the first snowfall.

The rest hang around just long enough to leave us hanging when things get busy.

And it’s about to get busy. Leaf-peeping season is starting early this year—the aspens are already turning at the top of the ridge.

Mom keeps saying I should hire a full-time housekeeper.

Easy for her to say—she’s retired, remarried, and seventy miles away.

Or maybe seven hundred. Either way, not here.

Not knee-deep in cold water, not fielding last-minute cancellations and plumbing repairs and wondering if I remembered to order more propane for the hot tubs.

My phone rings.

I wipe my hand on my shirt and answer. "Yeah?"

Emily’s wailing in the background before the nanny even speaks.

“Mr. Carter, hi, it’s—um—Shannon. I’ve tried putting her down twice and offered her a snack, but she’s still crying, and she keeps asking for?—”

“Have you actually talked to her?” I snap. “Read her a book? Sat with her? Or was handing her a granola bar your full plan?”

“I—I was told to encourage independence?—”

“She’s five,” I say, sharp. “Encouraging independence doesn’t mean ignoring her when she’s upset. She needs comfort, not distance.”

A pause. More crying in the background.

"I—I’m doing my best," she says weakly.

"Well, your best isn’t good enough. I’ll be there in ten."

I hang up.

That’s the third nanny in two months.

I toss my phone into the passenger seat and climb into the truck, jaw tight, boots still soaked from Tanner’s mud puddle. Emily’s crying voice is still echoing in my head, a mix of frustration and exhaustion I know too well.

She’s five. She shouldn't have to cry herself hoarse just to get someone to listen.

She’s sensitive—bright and curious, but easily overwhelmed. Some days, it’s like her feelings don’t fit inside her little body. I don’t blame her. Not for any of it.

What kills me is not being there when she needs me. What kills me more is knowing I can’t be.

I slam the door shut, gripping the steering wheel like it owes me something.

I don’t trust any of these temp hires—not the ones from the agency, not the ones Caleb found through word of mouth.

None of them know how to handle her. They all crack the first time she throws a fit or asks a question they don’t have a neat little answer for.

Where the hell is Caleb, anyway? He was supposed to be checking in the guests from the Boulder group by now.

Probably still chatting with them about hiking trails and the best time to spot elk, like that’s going to solve our infrastructure issues.

He means well—he always does—but sometimes I wish he’d stop trying to make everyone feel good and just help keep the place standing.

I start the engine, shift into reverse, but before I can back out, Caleb pulls into the lot from the side road, window down, sunglasses on, looking like he’s been having himself a real nice day.

Of course he has.

His SUV is cleaner than my truck and doesn’t make the same concerning rattle under the hood when he idles. He parks beside me like this is all perfectly normal and grins like an idiot.

“Sorry, man. Took a long lunch,” he says, all casual, like he’s not walking in on a full-blown disaster.

I snort. “What was it, a two-hour sandwich tasting? Or did you finally find that perfect locally sourced kombucha?”

He chuckles. “Mockery looks good on you, Grant. Real healthy outlet for stress.”

“Stress?” I slam the door shut and round the truck. “I just fired a nanny who thought the best way to handle my daughter’s tantrum was to ‘encourage independence.’ She’s five, Caleb. If she were old enough to be independent, she wouldn’t need a damn nanny, would she?”

He winces, then smirks. “Yikes. I’m sorry, man. You all right? You sound... crispy. And why are your jeans soaked? You didn’t?—”

“No, I didn’t piss my pants,” I snap. “I was fixing the pipe behind Cabin Six. Cole was supposed to handle it last week.”

“Why didn’t you just let Tanner deal with it?”

I laugh dryly. “Tanner? You mean the guy who nearly twisted the wrong valve and flooded the line? Yeah, that would’ve ended well.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Okay, fair. But didn’t he say he had plumbing experience?”

“He also said he knew how to read a site map. Then asked me what PVC stands for.”

Caleb winces again. “His sister, Marianne, told me he used to work for a home construction company in Durango. Framing, roofing... that sort of thing.”

“Well, either she lied, or he did.”

“Cole’s the one who actually interviewed him.”

I roll my eyes. Of course he did. Immediately, a mental image of Marianne flashes—tight red curls, that breathy voice, and a wardrobe better suited to a nightclub than a job site.

“Cole interviewed whom, exactly? Tanner, or Marianne?”

Caleb tries not to smile. “I didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“I’m sorry, man,” he says, finally sounding like he means it. “You heading home now?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to get there before the nanny tries another one of her brilliant strategies and convinces Emily that crying alone in a room builds character.”

Caleb leans back against his truck and folds his arms like he’s about to change my life. That look always makes me nervous.

“Good timing, then. I found you someone.”

I stop. “Someone for what?”

“For the job. Nanny. I’m telling you—this one’s solid.”

“Nope.” I shake my head, already walking again. “I’m done. No more nannies. No more temporary fixes. They’re all useless.”

Caleb straightens, not moving from my path. “This one’s not from an agency.”

I raise a brow. “What, you picking up child care specialists at the gas station now?”

He smiles. That smug, patient Caleb smile that means he’s about to drop a bomb he knows I won’t like. “It’s Ivy.”

I stare at him. “Ivy?”

He nods. “Ben Walker’s little sister. She’s back in town. She’s good with kids.”

“She's also scrawny, loud, and thinks she’s too good for Silvercreek.”

“She was seventeen the last time you saw her, Grant.”

“And?”

“And people grow up. She's smart. And more importantly, she's not going to treat Emily like a checklist.”

I cross my arms. “What if she leaves in a week? What if she finds a ‘real job’ and vanishes?”

Caleb shrugs. “Then you won’t have to fire her. Win-win.”

I glare.

He waits.

I sigh. “What time?”

“Eight a.m. tomorrow.”

I shake my head again, but this time with less conviction. “If she even mentions kale, I’m out.”

“She won’t. I promise.” He grins again, that maddening younger-brother confidence oozing out like sap. “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”

I open my truck door and mutter, “You say that every time things go sideways.”

He claps the roof of my truck. “That’s because it’s always true.”