Page 3 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant (Shared by the Carter Brothers #1)

IVY

I can’t believe I’m here.

I turn off the ignition and just sit there in my Subaru, parked in front of Grant Carter’s house, my hands still clutched around the steering wheel like it's going to save me.

The engine ticks as it cools. The only sound outside is the rustle of aspen leaves and the faint whistle of the wind.

No welcoming committee. No sign of life at all.

The house is tucked against a line of pines, not far from the main Carter property where the brothers grew up.

Caleb told me it was custom-built by Grant and his dad, before he got married.

I can see the craftsmanship in it—sturdy, symmetrical, honest. A mix of weathered wood and stone, with a wide porch and thick beams that look like they were meant to survive a blizzard or a war.

It’s beautiful, in that rugged, masculine way. And intimidating as hell.

I’ve never been here before. Never been invited. Not that I ever expected to be.

I reach for my bag, then pause, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. I look fine. Professional-ish. Clean jeans, a button-up, boots that aren’t too scuffed. My hair’s doing that halfway decent thing it sometimes manages when the humidity cooperates. Still, my stomach twists.

What the hell am I doing?

Caleb asked me for a favor. That’s how this started. And Caleb is hard to say no to.

He’s been like a big brother to me ever since Ben left for Denver after graduation.

For three years, Caleb was the one who showed up to the school plays—sitting in the audience when my parents got stuck working late at the orchard.

He brought me soup when I had the flu, helped me jump my car in the grocery store parking lot when no one else was around.

He’s the one who gave me that first push toward leaving town in the first place.

So when he suggested yesterday that Grant needed a nanny—just until things settled down—I said I’d think about it. Which apparently meant yes, because now I’m here.

At Grumpy Grant’s.

I’ve seen him around town, of course. You can’t live in Silvercreek and not know who Grant Carter is. Oldest of the Carter brothers. Keeper of cabins, growler of greetings. If Caleb’s a warm bonfire, Grant’s the smoldering coal under it. Quiet. Intense. Always watching.

He used to scare the hell out of me when I was a teenager. Still kind of does.

But it’s not just fear.

There’s something else about him. Something I’ve never been able to name. Like standing too close to a thunderstorm. You know you should step back, but part of you wants to see if lightning will strike.

I take a deep breath, grab my bag, and open the door.

Here goes nothing.

The porch steps creak under my boots as I make my way up. There's no doorbell, just a heavy iron knocker shaped like a bear’s head.

I hesitate for half a second, then lift it and knock—three short raps.

Nothing.

Then footsteps.

Heavy ones. Slow and deliberate, like the person on the other side is taking their time or making a point. Probably both.

The door swings open.

Grant Carter fills the frame.

He’s barefoot, wearing a faded gray T-shirt and jeans that look like they’ve seen actual battle.

His dark hair is still damp, like he just stepped out of the shower—or maybe dunked his head in cold water to prepare for this exact moment.

His expression is unreadable. Not cold, exactly. But not welcoming either.

“Ivy,” he says, like the word tastes strange in his mouth.

“Grant.” I smile, or try to.

We stare at each other for a beat too long. Then he steps aside.

“Come in.”

His voice is low. Rough. Like gravel under boot soles.

I step past him into the house, and immediately feel like I’ve walked into a place where silence is king.

It smells like cedar and coffee and something faintly metallic—tools, maybe.

The living room is neat, but not lived-in.

Like someone cleaned it for the sake of the interview but didn’t bother pretending they enjoy guests.

He shuts the door behind me, the thunk of it making me flinch just a little.

“You want coffee?” he asks.

“Um… sure.”

He turns and disappears into the kitchen without waiting for a real answer.

I hover near the entryway, then take a cautious step forward into the living room.

The space is quiet but lived-in, warmed by soft light filtering through the wide windows.

A wool blanket is draped over the back of the couch, and a pair of tiny sneakers sit neatly by the hearth.

A basket of toys—a fox puppet, some wooden blocks, and what looks like a very well-loved book about cabin construction —rests by the fireplace.

The walls are lined with sturdy bookshelves, mostly nonfiction, with a few children’s titles tucked between thick manuals and paperbacks with creased spines.

The furniture is simple but comfortable: overstuffed cushions, worn leather, handmade end tables.

Everything feels functional, solid, intentional.

Like someone took time to build not just a house, but a place to hold real life.

Above the mantle, there’s a small cluster of framed photographs.

I glance at them without meaning to, drawn in.

One shows Grant in a flannel shirt, laughing, one arm around a woman with golden-brown hair and a soft smile—Liz.

Between them is a much younger Emily, all chubby cheeks and wide eyes, perched on her dad’s shoulders.

Grant is smiling in the picture.

A real smile. Not the grim line he wears now like armor.

I exhale slowly. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe being here won’t be the disaster I thought it would be.

This is going well.

A creak on the stairs pulls my attention. I glance up and see Emily. She's standing there in socks and a cotton dress, her fox clutched tight in her arms. She peers at me like she’s not quite sure if I’m real.

“Hi there,” I say gently, crouching to her level. “You must be Emily. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

She blinks, then takes a cautious step into the room.

“Is Copper shy too?” I ask, nodding to the stuffed animal.

She clutches the fox tighter, but there’s the tiniest hint of a smile. “He talks to nice people.”

“Well, that’s lucky,” I say, sitting cross-legged on the rug. “Because I’m trying very hard to be one of those.”

She approaches, slowly, and settles down in front of me.

In seconds, the toy basket is open, and she’s pulling out blocks.

We build a crooked tower while she tells me Copper’s favorite foods, carrots and marshmallows, and that sometimes he gets scared of thunder.

I nod solemnly and agree that thunder is a valid thing to be scared of.

“Ivy,” she says, placing a block very carefully, “do you live in the woods?”

I smile. “Nope. Just down the road, with a lot of trees and nosy squirrels.”

She giggles. It's soft and warm and honest. My chest aches a little.

Then I hear footsteps behind me. I glance up.

Grant is standing in the doorway, mug in hand, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. He’s watching us, unreadable as ever. He says something low into the phone—something about rescheduling—and then ends the call.

Emily doesn’t notice. She’s too busy deciding which block should be the door.

Grant steps forward. “Emily. Go grab your sweater from your room.”

“But I’m not cold.”

“Still. Please.”

She sighs and obediently gets up, fox under her arm, and pads away.

Grant waits until she’s gone, then gestures to the couch. “Sit.”

I do, brushing my palms on my thighs. He takes the armchair, facing me like we’re at opposite ends of a negotiation table.

“You’re good with her,” he says flatly. “But playing with blocks is the easy part.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I wasn’t under the impression this was a test.”

“Everything’s a test when it comes to her,” he says. “I’ve had three nannies quit in the last two months, and many more before that. One lasted a day. One cried in the pantry.”

I nod slowly. “And you think I’m next.”

“You’re back in town,” he says, ignoring the comment. “After what—six years?”

“Almost seven. I went to Portland right after high school.”

“And why’d you come back?”

My jaw tightens. “Personal reasons.”

“That ‘personal reason’ got anything to do with you losing your job?”

My hands curl around the mug in my lap. “I didn’t come here to be interrogated.”

“I didn’t invite you,” he shoots back. “Caleb did.”

I blink. “So you’re just doing him a favor?”

He leans back. “He begged. Said you were good. Said Emily might like you. I figured I’d at least see for myself.”

“Which you clearly did,” I say, standing. “So let me save you the trouble of making a decision.”

I set the mug down, carefully, like I might break it if I don’t.

“I don’t know what happened to make you so distrustful of everyone, but whatever it is—it’s not my fault.

I came here to help. Because Caleb asked, yes, but also because I wanted to.

Emily’s great. And you—” I stop myself, shake my head.

“You don’t want help. You want someone to fail so you can be right about it. ”

He doesn’t stop me as I walk to the door.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I say without looking back.

And then I leave.

I shut the car door with more force than I need to and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The late September air slips in through the cracked window—cool, but not cold. Still, my hands are a little unsteady as I rest them on the steering wheel.

Not because of the weather.

Because of him .

I don’t start the engine. I just sit there in silence, staring at the empty road ahead like it’s going to tell me what to do next.

Why did I come here?

No—scratch that. I know why. Caleb asked me. And I said yes because Caleb's the kind of person you say yes to. Because he looked out for me after Ben left for Denver and I didn’t want to be alone in this town. Because I wanted to help. Because I felt... sorry.

Sorry for a little girl who lost her mom too soon. For a man who’s been holding his whole world together with duct tape and silence. For a family that still seems to be grieving, even if they don’t say it out loud.

But now?

Now I regret ever feeling sorry for Grant Carter .

Yes, he’s attractive. Painfully attractive, in that tall, broad, brooding way. The kind of man you don’t want to be caught looking at because he’ll catch you and raise an eyebrow like he already knows what you’re thinking.

But looks only get you so far. And underneath that flannel and jawline is a glacier of judgment and control issues. Cold. Arrogant. Suspicious of everything that breathes.

God. I actually thought—for a second—that he might not be so bad. That smile in the photo with Liz and Emily? It looked real. And I let it fool me.

I shake my head. Did I really think he was attractive? I must be losing it.

It’s been a long year.

In Portland, I dated. One guy, mostly. My boss. My ex. Same person. We were together for a while—long enough for me to imagine a future there. Then I found out he was seeing someone else. And not long after that, we broke up. Just like that.

After him, I tried dating again. Not seriously.

Not for long. A couple of hopeful starts that fizzled before they meant anything.

The last guy, Matt, was nice enough. Smart.

Stylish. Said all the right things. But we never really clicked.

We went out for three months and didn’t have a single real conversation.

After that, I didn’t bother. I buried myself in work. Tried to convince myself that if I just worked harder, I’d feel something again. That I’d find my place. That someone would see me and stay.

But I couldn’t find anything. And then came the cat pee. The sudden return to a town I used to dream of escaping.

And now this.

I press my forehead lightly against the steering wheel.

What was I thinking? That this would be simple? That I could walk into that house and everything would magically click into place? That he’d be grateful?

I wanted to help. But clearly, help isn’t welcome.

Not from me.