Page 2 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
I narrow my eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a setup.”
“It’s a job. Temporary. Local. Kid-friendly.”
“Wait. What?”
He grins like he knows I’m going to hate what comes next. “Grant Carter needs a nanny.”
I stare at him. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. Emily’s five. She’s sweet. Grant’s...”
“Not,” I finish the sentence for him. “Grant Carter. Grumpy Grant Carter. Youractualbrother.”
Caleb lifts a shoulder. “Technically, yes.”
“Does he even speak to humans?”
“He grunts. Occasionally uses full sentences if coffee is involved.”
“I can’t believe you’re suggesting I work for him.”
“He’s not as bad as you remember. Just... overworked. He’s running the lodge, the cabins, the rentals—and trying to be a dad. It’s a lot.”
I glance out at the fields, at the big red barn across the road. “I remember his wife. Liz. She was really kind.”
“Yeah. Losing her broke something in him. He’s been trying to hold everything together ever since. And failing, if you ask me.”
A small ache pulls at my chest. I don’t know Grant well, but I remember the funeral. I remember how tightly he held his daughter’s hand, how hollow his eyes looked.
I glance at Caleb. “It’s just… I don’t want to be another person he pushes away.”
“You won’t be,” he says. “I think you’ll be the first person who tells him no—and makes him thank you for it.”
I huff. “That’s wildly optimistic.”
“Come on, Ivy. You’re good with kids. You’re sharp. You won’t take his crap. And Emily needs someone steady. Just give it a shot. Worst-case scenario? You quit. Again. But you’ll get paid in the meantime.”
I take another sip of beer, thinking. It’s not like I have a better offer. And I hate feeling like a burden. Maybe... maybe helping someone else will help me, too.
“Fine,” I say at last. “I’ll meet him. But if he growls at me, I’m out.”
Caleb smirks. “Deal. But if I were you, I’d start practicing my poker face now.”
After Caleb headsback down the drive, I stay on the porch swing a little longer, cradling my half-warm beer like it has answers. The sun is leaning westward now, washing the hills in long, syrupy light. The shadows of the trees stretch long across the orchard like they’re reaching for something they’ll never quite catch.
The trees look tired. My parents do, too.
The late frost this spring wiped out almost half the crop. They won’t say it out loud—won’t use words likestrugglingorbarely getting by—but I see it in the way Dad moves slower in the morning, how Mom’s been baking pies for the café on the side like it’s a hobby and not a lifeline. And I hate that I don’t know how to help. Or worse, that I’m not sure I want to.
I could ask them for more time. For another chance to figure things out while hiding under their roof. I could pretend thisplace is enough. That I am. But I won’t. They’ve already given me more than they should’ve.
Silvercreek, a mountain town in southwestern Colorado, is the kind of town where time doesn’t really move—it loops. Nestled near the San Juan Mountains, there’s one road in and out, and it winds past shuttered cabins and aging fences, then curls around Mirror Lake like a ribbon someone tied too tight.
The town is small, but main Street has it all: a post office, a diner, a hardware store, a library, a bar, and a coffee shop that doubles as a bookstore—and you’re more likely to run into your fifth-grade teacher than someone new.
The mountains here are steep and unforgiving. The winters are long. The locals are proud and rooted and suspicious of anything that changes too quickly.
I used to hate it.
