Page 5 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant (Shared by the Carter Brothers #1)

IVY

B y the time I get home, I’ve almost convinced myself I overreacted.

Almost.

I kick off my boots by the back door and change into an old pair of jeans and a loose sweatshirt that smells faintly of orchard dust and laundry soap.

My hair goes up in a messy twist, and I swipe on some sunscreen from habit more than intention.

I don’t even pause before heading out to the orchard.

Dad’s truck is gone. He mentioned something about delivering apples to the café this morning, which means I won’t see him till after lunch.

I head for the trees.

The rows are long and sun-dappled, the air cool but warming fast. Early fall in Silvercreek always carries a kind of stubborn sweetness—like the season’s trying to hang on just a little longer.

I find one of the farmhands, Luis, picking along the north row.

He gives me a nod, and I grab a second bucket to join him.

We work in silence for a while, just the sound of apples thudding gently into the canvas sacks, leaves rustling overhead.

The rhythm helps. It always does.

Still, my thoughts churn.

That stupid interview. That infuriating man. The way he looked at me like I was an open question he didn’t want to waste time answering.

After a while, my shoulders ache, and the bins are half full. I haul my bucket toward the barn to sort. The wooden structure looms ahead, its big sliding doors cracked open, and the smell of apples and sawdust hits me before I even step inside.

Mom’s at the sorting table, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled. She looks up in surprise when she sees me.

“I thought you were going to babysit Grant Carter’s little girl,” she says.

I drop the bucket beside the crate stack. “Didn’t get the job.”

Mom straightens, eyes narrowing just a little. “Why not?”

I shrug. “I’m not good enough for him, I guess.”

“Nonsense.” She reaches for a cull apple and sets it in the lower bin. “You’re great with kids. You used to babysit the Durhams’ twins every summer, remember? And your cousin Wyatt used to cry when you left.”

“Well, Grumpy Grant doesn’t think so.” I bite down harder than I mean to. “He thinks just because I quit my job in Portland, I can’t do anything else.”

A throat clears behind me.

“That’s not what I meant.”

I freeze.

That voice. Low. Familiar. Dread-inducing.

I spin around so fast my elbow nearly knocks over a sorting crate.

Grant Carter stands in the barn doorway, tall and unmistakably solid in his dark flannel and jeans. Next to him is a small figure clutching his hand—Emily, fox puppet tucked under her arm, eyes wide but hopeful.

My jaw drops. Literally.

I open my mouth, but no words come out. Just a stunned breath.

Mom gets there first.

“Well, Mr. Carter,” she says, polite but not exactly warm. “What do you want?”

Grant hesitates. His hand flexes around Emily’s. For a moment, I think he might bolt. But then Emily tugs his arm, and something shifts in his posture.

He clears his throat. “Good morning, Mrs. Walker. I’m here to apologize to Ivy.”

My heart stutters.

“I’m sorry about what I said about your employment history,” he says. “And I… I would like you to—” He stops, looks down at Emily, then back up at me. “—to be Emily’s nanny.”

I blink. Once. Twice. Still no words.

I glance at Mom, silently asking is this real?

Mom composes herself quickly, though I can see the faint flicker of surprise in her eyes.

“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, Grant,” she says. “Because you won’t find anyone better than Ivy.”

“Mom,” I whisper, half mortified, half still trying to catch up with reality.

“I know.” Grant’s voice is quieter now. “I realized I made a mistake. And I hope it’s not too late to fix it.”

He’s not looking at my mom anymore. He’s looking at me.

Mom turns to me. “Well, it’s up to you, sweetheart. Do you want to work for Mr. Carter?”

I hesitate.

And then Emily steps forward and takes my hand in her small one.

“Please, Ivy,” she says softly.

I look down at her. At the hopeful tilt of her face. At the trust in her eyes.

And something inside me—something tight and tired and bruised—starts to unclench.

I smile.

And I say, “Yes.”

Ten minutes later, I’m in Grant Carter’s truck—same jeans, same button-up, same stunned disbelief.

Ivy Walker: officially employed.

And my boss? Grumpy. Jerk. Grant.

I slide into the back seat beside Emily, who’s happily swinging her legs and holding her fox puppet like it’s part of the family. The truck smells faintly of leather and cedar—clean, no-nonsense. The bench-style back seat is wide and firm, the kind that doesn’t invite naps, just transport.

Grant closes the driver’s door with a solid thunk and glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Seatbelt.”

“I got it,” I say, already buckling in.

He doesn’t comment further. Just puts the truck into drive and pulls away from the barn.

Emily hums quietly beside me, her shoulder brushing mine now and then as we bump along the gravel road. She smells like apples and strawberry shampoo.

“I usually need someone on weekdays,” Grant says, keeping his eyes on the road. “Sometimes on weekends. I work at home on weekends except when there are events at Carter Ridge, but we’ll play that by ear.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding like I’m already jotting it down in a mental planner.

“Start time is eight a.m. sharp. I have a meeting most mornings. End time varies—anywhere from four to six. Depends on how things shake out. ”

“Got it.”

“You’ll need to prep her lunch, handle pickup from the afternoon rec class at the library on Wednesdays, and make sure she gets thirty minutes of reading time and at least an hour of outdoor play.”

“Sure.”

“No TV unless it’s a nature documentary series. Not the one with cartoon animals, the one with real wildlife footage. She likes anything with foxes.”

“Great.”

“No sugar after noon. She gets restless at bedtime. She’ll try to sneak gummies—don’t let her. And no more than one juice box a day. Unless it’s diluted.”

“Okay.”

“And if she says she doesn’t need sunscreen, she’s lying.”

Beside me, Emily doesn’t look away from the window. “I’m not lying,” she mutters. “I just don’t like the sticky kind.”

I glance down at her, surprised by the quiet defiance in her tone.

Grant snorts softly. “You see?”

“There’s a schedule on the fridge. Stick to it as closely as possible. She thrives on routine. Also, don’t let her pick her own clothes unless you want her to look like a mismatched acrobat.”

“Sounds fun.”

He doesn’t laugh. “It’s not.”

By the time we hit the main road back toward his house, I’ve been handed at least twenty directives, some bordering on micromanagement, others bordering on… affectionate paranoia. I lose track somewhere between no red dye and fox puppet must be in sight during story time.

For a second, I almost regret saying yes.

Almost.

But then I glance down at Emily, who’s holding my index finger in her small hand. She’s leaned lightly against me, blinking out the window with that dreamy expression kids get when they’ve made peace with a long ride.

There’s something about her that draws me in.

I felt it this morning—not just pity, but something deeper. A quiet bond, forming in the space between us.

And I have a feeling she’s the reason her father changed his mind.

I take a slow breath, look back up at the man behind the wheel, and realize something else.

He’s not being a jerk. Not really. He’s just being careful.

Every rule, every restriction, every overly detailed guideline—it’s all coming from the same place.

Love.

Overprotective, obsessive, bordering-on-overbearing love—but still love.

And honestly? I can respect that.

Maybe even admire it.

Still, it’s a little much.

“You know,” I say lightly, “for a guy who said I wasn’t the right fit, you sure are handing me a lot of instructions.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His hands tighten slightly on the wheel.

“I was wrong,” he says finally. “And… I’m sorry for being a grump. Grumpy Grant .”

Shit. Now I feel bad for calling him that.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“It’s okay,” he says, chuckling. “I’ve earned the nickname.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard him chuckle. I can’t see his face—not directly—but I catch a flash of white teeth in the rearview mirror.

And something flickers inside me—an odd flutter I try to shove back down.

Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.

Just because he has broad shoulders and a gruff voice and loves his daughter fiercely doesn’t mean I need to start assigning adjectives like hot or wounded or—God forbid— interesting.

He’s still Grumpy Grant. He’s still cold, intense, and probably impossible to please.

And I’m just here to do a job.

That’s it.

I sit a little straighter and look out the window.

Focus, Ivy. You don’t want to mess up with your boss, again.

Besides, this isn’t about you, or about him.

It’s about Emily.

Grant pulls into the drive and cuts the engine. I expect him to pop the door and tell us to have a good day like some reluctant Uber driver.

Instead, he gets out and opens the back door for Emily.

Then waits for me.

“I’ll show you around,” he says. “Make sure you know where everything is.”

I nod, a little surprised. “Okay.”

Inside, the house feels quieter than it did this morning. Less guarded, somehow. Maybe it’s Emily’s presence, padding down the hall with her fox puppet. Or maybe it’s mine.

Grant gestures toward the kitchen. “Snacks are in the bottom drawer. She knows where, but that doesn’t mean she’s allowed to help herself.”

“Of course not,” I say, already eyeing the neatly labeled canisters and stacked fruit bowls. The man is nothing if not organized.

“Lunch stuff’s in the fridge. I usually pack it ahead, but if not, she likes turkey sandwiches and cut-up apples. No crusts.”

“Noted.”

He moves through the house like he’s giving a tactical briefing—efficient, focused, all business. And I follow, because somehow this is business. But it also… isn’t.

In the living room, he points out a shelf of books. “Her current favorites are on the middle row. If you let her pick, she’ll choose the one with the talking forklift every time.”

I laugh. “I can handle that.”

We move toward the hallway, passing a doorway I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“What’s in there?” I ask.

“Reading nook,” he says. “Used to be Liz’s craft room. We turned it into a quiet space for Emily.”

I step inside without thinking—and stop.

It’s a small, narrow room with soft lighting and floor cushions, shelves of picture books and puzzles, and a rocking chair in the corner. Peaceful. Thoughtful. A little magical, actually.

Grant’s right behind me. And when he steps in, the space shrinks.

The room wasn’t made for two adults, especially not two who are both trying very hard not to notice they’re standing close enough to breathe the same air.

I shift slightly. So does he.

My arm brushes his.

His hand grazes my elbow.

We both go still.

I glance up. He’s already looking at me—eyes dark, unreadable. And for one suspended second, I forget entirely why I’m here.

Then his phone buzzes.

He jerks back a step, clearing his throat as he checks the screen. “It’s Cole,” he mutters, thumbing the call to speaker. “I should take this.”

I nod quickly, too quickly, and step out of the room before I do something stupid like forget how to speak.

Emily’s in the living room again, arranging blocks on the rug with quiet concentration.

Grant ends the call faster than I expected and turns back toward me.

“I should head out,” he says. “We’ve got guests checking in, and I’m already late.”

I nod, smoothing my hair out of habit. “Go. I’ve got this.”

He hesitates.

I smile, softer now. “I’ll take good care of her, Grant. I promise.”

His eyes meet mine. Something shifts in them—something warmer than before.

“Thanks,” he says.

And then he’s gone.

The door closes behind him, and the house settles into quiet.

I look at Emily, who beams up at me and holds out a block.

“Your turn,” she says.

I sit on the rug beside her.

Maybe I was wrong this morning.

Maybe this won’t be such a disaster after all.