Page 9 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant (Shared by the Carter Brothers #1)

GRANT

I stand at the door long after she’s gone, one hand braced against the frame like it’s the only thing holding me upright.

Ivy.

Damn it.

She didn’t say a word. Just rushed out like the house was on fire. Which, in a way, I guess it was. My fault. Entirely. One second we were laughing—actually laughing—and the next… I kissed her.

I kissed her.

I rake a hand through my hair and blow out a slow breath. I want to go after her. Not to explain—hell, I don’t even know what I’d say—but just to make sure she’s okay. Her family’s place isn’t exactly around the corner. And she didn’t drive. I brought her here myself.

I step out onto the porch, scanning the gravel path. She’s already halfway down the drive, phone in hand. I call her name—once, softly, too quietly for her to hear. My throat’s dry. I take a step forward.

“Em?” I glance back into the house. Emily’s in the living room, arranging blocks into some kind of elaborate tower. I can’t leave her alone. Not for even five minutes.

I shift my weight toward the steps anyway.

That’s when I see headlights.

Caleb’s SUV.

Figures.

The tires crunch over the gravel as he pulls up beside her, window already rolling down. Ivy doesn’t even hesitate. She climbs in without a second thought, tossing her hair over one shoulder like she’s glad to see him. She’s smiling.

Relief. That’s the first emotion that hits. A gut-deep kind. She’s safe. She’s not walking home or stranded or pissed and alone.

But the second?

Envy. Cold and sharp. And stupid.

Caleb leans across the cab and says something I can’t hear. Ivy laughs—soft and real. The SUV backs up, turns around, and rolls down the drive without so much as a glance my way.

I let the door swing shut behind me and press my back to it.

Shit.

Why the hell did I kiss her?

I know better. I’ve been telling myself every hour of every day that Ivy Walker is off-limits. She’s young. She’s my employee. She’s Emily’s nanny.

And she’s not just anyone. I remember her as that soaked eighth grader I spotted on the trail road one afternoon, sitting on a rock under a pine like she’d given up on the world. A hard mountain rain soaked through, her hoodie clinging heavy and limp against her.

She wasn’t supposed to grow up like this—sharp, kind, gorgeous. Not in a way that knocks the air out of me every time she smiles at my daughter.

I close my eyes.

This is exactly what I didn’t want.

Ivy’s good with Emily. No, more than good—she’s the first person who’s made Emily laugh like that in… God, maybe a year. Since Liz. And now I’ve ruined everything by making it weird. Complicated. Risky.

What if she doesn’t come back?

What if I just destroyed the one good thing Emily’s had in a long time?

I push off the door and pace the living room, every step heavy with guilt. I swore I’d keep things professional. I swore I wouldn’t let anyone get close—not to Emily, not to me. Not like this.

And yet here I am. Acting like some hormone-drunk teenager with no impulse control.

I glance toward the kitchen. The place where it happened. The way her lips parted, the look in her eyes right before mine closed.

I shake my head hard and scrub a hand down my face.

I can’t do this.

I won’t.

Not again.

For Emily’s sake—for Ivy’s—this ends here.

Tomorrow, I’ll apologize. We’ll reset. We’ll pretend like it didn’t happen. Like I’m still just her boss, and she’s just the nanny.

And if something in me already knows that’s a lie?

I ignore it.

For now.

I head to the kitchen, trying to shove the chaos in my head to the background and focus on something useful. Dinner. Something easy. Something Emily will actually eat.

Pasta it is.

I boil water, fry up some garlic and olive oil, and throw together the simplest version of dinner I can manage. Emily hums behind me at the table, lining up her crayons in rainbow order, completely unbothered by the fact that I’m a train wreck pretending to be a functioning adult.

When I set her plate in front of her, she looks up at me with that bright smile that always hits too hard.

“Thanks, Daddy.”

I nod and try to return it. “You’re welcome, bug.”

She digs in immediately, swinging her legs under the table, humming as she chews.

“So…” I stir my own food but don’t take a bite. “Did you have fun with Ivy today?”

Her eyes light up instantly, her whole face glowing. “Yes! We read The Great Fox Detective and she did the voices. And she drew me a picture of me and Floppy having a picnic. And she made a tent out of the couch pillows and let me be the queen. And she let me wear her sunglasses. And?—”

“Okay, okay,” I laugh, holding up a hand. “That’s a lot of ands.”

“She’s fun,” Emily says with a dreamy sigh, like she’s thinking of a Disney princess. Then she pops a bite of pasta into her mouth and chews with exaggerated contentment.

“You still like her?” I ask.

She nods so fast her curls bounce. “Uh-huh. A lot.”

I look down at my plate. Twirl a forkful. Don’t eat it.

Yeah. Me too.

Except my kind of “like” is exactly what makes this dangerous.

Ivy didn’t push me away earlier. She kissed me back—hell, she melted into it.

But then she bolted like the floor was on fire.

And I let her go. Because what else was I going to do?

Chase her? Say, “Hey, sorry I crossed a line, but wanna come back tomorrow and care for my daughter while I pretend I’m not having a full-on breakdown? ”

I press the heel of my hand to my forehead.

God. What if she doesn’t come back?

What if I ruined this already?

I clean up dinner while Emily draws at the table, humming her made-up “Ivy Song,” which has no melody and even fewer lyrics, but still manages to gut me every time she says her name.

Afterward, I give Emily her bath—she makes a bubble crown and insists I call her “Queen Soap”—and tuck her into bed with her favorite fox plushie curled under one arm.

“Will Ivy be here tomorrow?” she asks as I pull the blanket to her chin.

I hesitate. “I hope so.”

“She likes me,” Emily says with sleepy certainty. “I can tell.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, brushing a damp curl off her forehead. “I can tell too.”

I kiss her temple, switch off the lamp, and close the door behind me.

And then I stand in the hallway, spine pressed to the wall, head tipped back.

I kissed Ivy Walker.

And I liked it.

More than I should.

And now I’m scared as hell of what comes next.

In the bathroom, I stare at the mirror above the sink.

I look tired. The lines around my mouth are deeper, the stubble at my jaw more salt than pepper.

I strip out of my shirt, peeling it over my head, and shuck my jeans.

In the shower, the water is nearly too hot, and I stand under it until my skin glows pink.

I scrub at the day—dirt under my nails, sweat at my chest, a smear of spaghetti sauce I only notice now.

Even then, the feeling doesn't go away. The need. The ache.

I towel off, toss my clothes into the laundry basket, and snag a cold beer from the fridge on my way to the couch. The house is silent except for the tick of the kitchen clock and the faint hum of the fridge compressor. I pop the top, take a long swallow, and let my mind drift to Ivy.

I don't want to. I do it anyway.

The way her lips tasted like apple and sugar, the little gasp she made when I pressed in, the heat of her palm flat against my chest. She’s younger than me, ten years at least, but she carries herself older, like the world’s already worn her down a bit.

I like that. I like the way her eyes spark when she’s angry.

I like the way she never talks down to Emily, or to me.

I pick up my phone and swipe through a couple of social media notifications, then, out of habit, click over to a porn site.

I scroll past the thumbnails—blondes with plastic smiles, brunettes in push-up bras, girls younger than Ivy, older than her, nothing that does it for me.

I close the tab and toss the phone onto the coffee table.

I finish the beer, set the empty can down, and lean back into the couch cushions.

My hand drifts under the waistband of my boxers, just to see if I’m actually as wound up as I feel.

I am. The pressure’s almost painful. I haven’t jerked off in years, not since I met Liz.

Since she passed, I haven’t even felt the urge.

Grief has a way of strangling every instinct.

It’s only now, with Ivy’s taste still burning my tongue, that I remember what it’s like to want something more than numbness.

I let myself drift, eyes closed, one hand around myself, slow and deliberate.

I try to picture some generic body, faceless, someone I’ll never meet.

But every time it’s Ivy—her laugh, her hair, her hand on my wrist. I picture her in that summer dress she wore to Emily’s school picnic, the way it clung to her hips when she bent down to tie a shoe.

I picture her looking up at me, lips parted, pupils blown wide with want.

I pump my hand, not fast, but steady. I imagine her mouth, the wet heat of her tongue, the scratch of her nails up my ribs.

The fantasy takes shape: Ivy backing me up against the pantry door, yanking her own shirt off, her nipples hard and pink, my hands full of her ass, her legs wrapped tight around my waist. She gasps into my ear, "Don’t stop. " She never once tells me to stop.

I come, sharp and sudden, into my own fist. My body jerks, a full-body shudder, the way it did when I was seventeen and didn’t know what to do with all the need inside me. I catch my breath, wipe my hand on a paper towel, and just sit there, heart hammering.

After a while, I get up and walk to the bathroom, wash my hands, and look myself in the mirror again. I look the same. Maybe a little more hollowed out.

“Keep it together,” I tell my reflection. The guy in the mirror doesn’t answer.

I splash cold water on my face, dry off with a hand towel, and stand there until the chill sinks into my bones.

Then I go to bed, alone, the way I have for the past year.

I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Ivy’s lying awake too.

Wondering if she’s thinking about me. Wondering if tomorrow, she’ll show up at the door, or if she’ll call and say she’s done.

And then I reach for my phone and type.