Page 8 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant (Shared by the Carter Brothers #1)

IVY

E mily and I are on the rug, surrounded by puzzle pieces and plastic animals. She’s narrating a story about a fox and a ballerina dinosaur—apparently, they live in a castle and have tea every Tuesday.

I pretend to sip my imaginary tea and nod solemnly. “Does the fox like honey in hers?”

“Only on Tuesdays,” she says, like that explains everything.

I smile, her world easy and bright, and I almost don’t hear the front door creak open.

Emily does. “Daddy!”

I look up just in time to see Grant step inside, his hair tousled from the wind, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a faint grease smudge on his wrist. The way Emily barrels into him nearly knocks him off his feet, but he catches her with ease.

“Hey, peanut,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple. His eyes meet mine over her shoulder, and something unspoken passes between us—something that tightens my throat before I can name it.

“I should probably clean up before I go,” I say, rising to my feet and brushing invisible lint from my jeans.

Grant nods, distracted by Emily’s tale of the day. “You don’t have to,” he says without looking.

I gather the toys, toss them into the basket by the fireplace, and straighten the cushions. I smooth the blanket draped over the back of the couch. My exit is almost complete when I notice a sticky cup on the coffee table. Without thinking, I carry it to the kitchen.

The sun has dipped lower, pouring amber light across the counters. I run the tap, rinsing the cup, letting the warm water trickle over my fingers. It feels grounding—real—after a long, strange day.

Behind me, footsteps.

“You don’t have to do that,” Grant says. “You’ve already done enough.”

“I’m almost done,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder.

He moves beside me anyway, setting something else in the sink—Emily’s cereal bowl from the morning, I think.

His presence fills the kitchen. Not just physically, though he’s tall and solid beside me—but something more. His nearness changes the air.

I reach to grab the rinsed cup from the drying rack, but my fingers are damp and the cup slips.

“Ah—”

We both lunge for it.

His hand lands over mine. Firm, warm.

The cup clinks into the sink, unbroken.

But we don’t move.

His fingers are wrapped around mine, both our hands wet and warm, bracing the cup. We’re too close. I can feel the heat of him, his breath just a little uneven.

I laugh—nervously, trying to break the moment. “Nice save.”

He doesn’t laugh.

When I look up, he’s watching me like he’s seeing me for the first time. His brows are slightly drawn, his gaze flicking between my eyes, my lips. My breath catches.

He moves before I can think.

His free hand slides to my waist, the slightest tug, and I don’t resist. I can’t.

Then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is firm and sure—no hesitation, just heat and hunger and the kind of honesty that doesn’t ask permission.

His lips are warm, his stubble rough against my skin.

My heart leaps, and for a moment, the world narrows to the space between us.

The scent of soap and sawdust. The steady grip of his hands. The wild, unexpected rush in my chest.

When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.

We stare at each other like we’ve just stepped off a cliff.

Then a voice from the living room—Emily calling for Daddy.

The moment cracks.

Grant steps back. His hands drop to his sides.

“I—” he starts, but I beat him to it.

“I should go.”

He nods once, jaw tight.

I dry my hands, still trembling slightly, and walk toward the door. I say goodbye to Emily without lingering.

“Wait,” Grant calls from the back. “I’ll drive.”

“No, I’m fine,” I say quickly, forcing a tight smile before rushing out the front door.

The moment the cool air hits my face, I realize I’m trembling—not from the temperature, but from the aftermath of the kiss still tingling on my lips. God. What just happened?

I hurry down the steps and across the gravel path, needing space, air, anything to break the tension thrumming under my skin.

But then I stop dead in my tracks.

Damn it.

I don’t have my car. Grant drove me here. And the orchard isn’t exactly around the corner. Although I can see it from where I stand, and the drive takes ten minutes. Walking back in these boots would take at least an hour, and most of it would be uphill through dust and potholes.

Panic flutters in my chest for a second. I don’t want to go back inside to take him up on the offer to drive me home. Not yet. Not like this.

I pull out my phone, my fingers slightly unsteady. I scroll to Dad’s name and am just about to tap it when I hear the low rumble of a car engine behind me.

I glance back—and my breath releases in relief as a familiar blue SUV pulls up the drive.

Caleb. He and Cole live right next to Grant. He must be on his way home.

He pulls up beside me and lowers the window, one arm draped over the wheel, eyebrows raised. “Hey,” he says. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” I say too fast, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “I was just about to call my dad for a ride.”

Caleb glances toward the house, then back at me. “Why? Can’t Grant give you a lift?”

I fumble for a response, my cheeks heating. “Because… um, he can’t leave Emily alone.”

A pause.

Caleb gives me a slow, unreadable look, like he’s weighing that answer against a few others he’s already guessed. But he doesn’t press—yet.

“I see,” he says, his tone easy. “In that case, hop in.”

I exhale and smile—grateful, embarrassed, and still reeling from the chaos inside me. “Thanks.”

Without hesitation, I climb into the passenger seat. Caleb doesn’t say anything for the first few seconds as we pull out of the drive. The SUV hums along the quiet road, tall grass swaying on either side, and I feel the knots in my chest start to loosen.

But then he glances sideways. “You sure nothing happened?”

I stare straight ahead. “Positive.”

He doesn’t buy it.

“If he did something—” Caleb’s voice is softer now, but there’s an edge to it. “You can tell me. I won’t let him off the hook easy. Just because he’s my older brother doesn’t mean I have to give a shit.”

My mouth opens, then closes.

“I’m fine, really,” I say after a beat. “There’s nothing… He didn’t do anything.” I swallow. “Nothing bad, at least.”

Caleb raises a brow, glancing sideways again. “Nothing bad, huh?”

I press my lips together.

He lets out a breath, rubbing a hand along the steering wheel. “All right. If you say so.”

I shoot him a sideways look. “Do you always interrogate people after rescuing them?”

He laughs. “Only when they look like they’ve seen a ghost.”

I give him a wry smile, grateful for the release of tension. Caleb’s not stupid. He’s known Grant his whole life. He’s known me most of mine. I can practically feel the questions buzzing under his tongue.

But he keeps them there—for now.

And I’m grateful.

Because I don’t have answers yet.

Only one thought, looping through my head like a warning: What the hell have I gotten myself into?