Page 10 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
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 andsilence. 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 forGrant Carter.
Yes, he’s attractive.Painfullyattractive, 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.
4
GRANT
Idon't follow her.
The front door slams, and I just stand there, arms crossed, jaw clenched, staring at the empty space where Ivy had been seconds ago.
Good, I tell myself. That’s probably for the best. She’s not cut out for this. I don’t know how I got the idea, but I just believe so.
But the silence in the room buzzes, and my stomach twists in a way that doesn’t feel like relief.
I run a hand through my hair and exhale hard, still standing near the archway between the kitchen and living room. The mug of coffee I poured for her sits untouched on the counter behind me. I don’t even like coffee in the afternoon, but I made it. Out of… what? Courtesy? Obligation?
Guilt?
Hell if I know.
I didn’t mean to tear into her like that. Not really. But something about Ivy Walker gets under my skin. Always has. She’s too sharp around the edges, too quick to walk away. The kind of girl who leaves town with big dreams and only comes back when the shine wears off.
She wouldn't have lasted anyway.
She’s not used to kids like Emily. Not the messy parts. Not the grief, the sensitivity, the routine you build like scaffolding just to get through the week. Ivy’s used to mood boards and Wi-Fi and oat milk. Not this.
I convince myself of that as I go upstairs.
