Page 7 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant (Shared by the Carter Brothers #1)

IVY

T he door clicks shut, and the sound seems to echo through the house like a final punctuation mark. I stand there for a moment, listening to the silence that follows. Grant’s truck starts up, then fades down the drive until it’s nothing but a memory.

I let out a long, shaky breath.

Okay.

It takes me a few seconds to unclench. My shoulder still tingles where he brushed past me in that too-small hallway, and the memory of his voice—low, gravelly, almost warm—lingers in my ears like an echo.

For a guy with all the emotional range of a tree stump, he sure knows how to invade a room without trying.

And his smile? God help me. The one in the photo had nothing on the real thing —breaking through his usual scowl like sunlight through storm clouds. Brief. Unexpected. Devastating.

I shake my head. No. Don’t do this.

He’s your boss. Your grumpy, broody, annoyingly attractive boss. With a kid.

And a past.

Whatever flickered between us back there doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.

I press my palms to my cheeks, still warm, and force myself to breathe.

Focus, Ivy.

This job matters. Emily matters.

I walk back into the living room where Emily is now curled up with her fox toy again, gently brushing its tail with a small, soft-bristled doll brush.

“Hey, you,” I say, kneeling beside her. “What should we do now?”

She looks up with that thoughtful, serious expression I’m already coming to recognize—wide eyes, slightly tilted head, like she’s weighing the pros and cons of every answer.

Then she says, “Can we play the restaurant game?”

I smile. “Only if I get to be the very picky customer.”

Her eyes light up. “Yes!”

We set up at the coffee table. She disappears into the play kitchen tucked into the corner and returns with plastic vegetables and two chipped cups.

I scribble out a pretend menu on the back of a grocery list I found on the fridge, and we’re off—ordering, serving, giggling through fake food disasters and overly dramatic complaints about soup that’s “too green” and juice that “tastes like socks.”

It’s easy. Natural. She’s easy to love, even when she’s bossy or distracted or suddenly quiet for no clear reason. And when she leans against my arm to show me how to stir “magic soup” with a spatula that looks like it’s been chewed on, my chest tugs in a way that’s warm and painful all at once.

I glance toward the door.

No sign of Grant.

Good.

Better, maybe.

Because this—this job, this house, this strange new rhythm I’ve stumbled into—feels almost too fragile. Like if I let my heart get involved, it’ll all slip through my fingers.

Still, when Emily grabs my hand and pulls me toward the backyard for “secret garden adventures,” I follow without hesitation.

Maybe I can figure the rest out later.

Emily eats her grilled cheese and apple slices like she’s a judge on a cooking show—carefully, thoughtfully, as if there’s a right and wrong way to chew.

“I like the crust,” she declares halfway through, which feels like winning a small, quiet victory.

After lunch, I wipe her hands and lead her to her room.

She yawns and asks if I’ll stay with her until she falls asleep.

I nod and sit on the edge of her little bed, rubbing slow circles across her back as she curls around her fox toy.

Within minutes, her breathing evens out, lashes resting against soft cheeks.

I tiptoe out, pulling the door until it clicks shut behind me. The house is still.

I make my way back to the living room and sink onto the couch, the silence pressing in like a weighted blanket.

I should check my phone. Text Caleb. Maybe scroll through job listings, like I do every night.

Instead, I lean back and let my eyes drift across the room—at the blanket on the couch, the neat row of books, the framed photo of Grant, Liz, and baby Emily on the mantle. Grant’s eyes crinkled in laughter, Liz's hand on his chest, proud and tender.

He was different back then. Everyone said so.

I remember hearing it around town—how Grant Carter had been a surly, hard-ass type who never had time for anyone except his work and his brothers.

But then he met Liz, a much older woman, at a cider festival in Gunnison, and something in him shifted.

People started saying things like "He’s softer now,” or "That woman straightened him out.

" I didn’t know him well, but even I noticed the change.

He smiled more. Lingered longer at the grocery store checkout. Waved at people.

And then, out of nowhere, Liz got sick. Ovarian cancer—swift and merciless.

I found out during my visit home two Christmases ago, and by the following summer, Liz was gone, and Grant was… the man you see now.

Closed off. Blunt. Made of stone.

I rub my arms and glance out the window. The orchard hills shimmer in the distance under the early autumn sun.

It’s strange being here. Stranger still working in this house.

But it’s not the first time Grant Carter has surprised me.

I remember once—back in middle school, maybe 8 th grade. I was walking home from school because Ben forgot to pick me up. It started pouring, that kind of cold mountain rain that turns your backpack into a soggy brick. I didn’t have a jacket, just a hoodie that clung to me like a wet rag.

I got turned around trying to take a shortcut through the trail behind Carter Ridge. My phone was dead, I was freezing, and I sat down on a rock under a pine tree and started crying—not loudly, just the kind of quiet, angry cry you do when you know no one’s coming.

Except someone did.

Grant.

He must’ve been on his way to town, but he stopped when he saw me—did a double take through the wipers, then pulled over.

“You lost, kid?” he asked through the window.

I sniffled and nodded.

He didn’t say much. Just tossed me a towel from the backseat and told me to get in.

He cranked up the heat and didn’t even yell when I dripped water all over his truck. Just handed me a granola bar and drove me straight home.

He never mentioned it again. Neither did I. But for weeks after, I found myself glancing at the Carter truck when it passed, wondering if he remembered. Wondering why he’d stopped at all.

I guess that’s what I’m still wondering now.

Why he came to the barn.

Why he changed his mind.

And why that flicker in his eyes—when our hands brushed in the hallway—felt like something more than a simple change of heart.

I shift on the couch, suddenly restless. It doesn’t matter. He’s my boss. My very grumpy, very broody boss. And I have a job to do.

Still, I can’t help the way my heart pinches when I glance at that picture on the mantle again. Grant, Liz, and baby Emily—back when life looked like it made sense.

Back when he smiled with his whole face.

I’m helping Emily line up her crayons by color when I hear the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. My heart jumps. Grant?

I glance at the clock—only four. He said he’d be back closer to six. Maybe something came up?

I rise, brushing my hands on my jeans and walk to the front window, peeking through the curtain just as a dusty Jeep Wrangler rolls to a stop outside. My heart does another jump, but for a different reason.

Cole Carter.

Why is he here?

He steps out of the truck in worn jeans and a navy Henley that fits him a little too well.

His sunglasses catch the sun, and his sandy-blond hair looks artfully tousled in that infuriatingly effortless way.

He takes in the house like he owns the place—which, technically, he probably does—and strolls toward the porch with that lazy, confident gait that has probably undone more than a few small-town hearts.

I crack open the door before he knocks.

“Well, well,” he says, grinning. “If it isn’t the infamous Ivy Walker.”

I arch a brow. “Infamous?”

He lifts his sunglasses onto his head. His eyes—clear, golden-brown, and far too observant—roam over me in a way that makes me feel both flattered and mildly annoyed. “Word gets around when a certain grumpy brother hires a certain firecracker for a nanny.”

I cross my arms, not trusting the heat rising in my cheeks. “Should I be flattered?”

“Depends,” he says, leaning against the doorframe like he’s got all day. “Are you going to let me in, or are we doing this whole conversation from the threshold?”

Emily runs up behind me. “Uncle Cole!”

I step aside automatically as Emily barrels into him, and he scoops her up in one swoop, spinning her around like she weighs nothing.

“Hey, munchkin,” he says, planting a kiss on her cheek. “What’ve you been up to today?”

She starts babbling about coloring and blocks and the game we made up with her fox puppet, and he listens with an exaggerated gasp here and a dramatic “No way!” there. She’s beaming. Completely in love with him.

He’s good with kids. Too good.

“Sounds like Ivy’s been spoiling you,” Cole says, setting her down gently. He turns his attention back to me, his expression softer now. “Thanks for taking good care of her.”

“I’m just doing my job,” I say.

“Yeah, but not everyone gets an endorsement this glowing.” He gestures toward Emily, who’s now dragging her fox around by the tail and humming.

I offer a faint smile. “She makes it easy.”

He studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing in a way that feels... different. Not unfriendly. But no longer the way you look at someone’s kid sister. And not the way he looked at me when I was sixteen and hiding behind oversized hoodies and my brother’s shadow.

I swallow. My mom’s voice flits into my head—her age-old warning about Cole Carter and his charming smile. Back then, she didn’t need to worry. Cole barely knew I existed.

Now? He’s looking at me like I’m someone worth noticing.

And that’s dangerous.

“So,” he says casually, “am I going to have to fight my own brother for your attention now?”

I blink. “What?”

He grins. “Kidding. Mostly.” He nods toward Emily. “Just wanted to stop by, check on my favorite niece. And see how things are going.”

I manage a breath. “We’re good.”

“Good,” he says. “You’re good for her. She already talks about you like you’re a superhero.”

That flutter in my chest comes back. “She’s pretty incredible.”

“She is,” he agrees, then lifts his sunglasses back into place. “Well, don’t let me interrupt. Tell my brother he owes me lunch. And that I said not to screw this up.”

I raise a brow. “This?”

“The whole arrangement.” His grin turns wicked. “What did you think I meant?”

I don’t answer. He winks at me before heading back to his Jeep, Emily waving wildly from the porch as he pulls away.

I close the door behind me, heart still thudding. Grant Carter might be trouble.

But Cole?

He’s a whole different kind.