Page 35 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
Her response was short. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”
Emily's excited voice carries from the kitchen where she's talking to her stuffed animals about the new nanny. Her happiness twists the knife of guilt deeper. I hired Ivy to care for my daughter, not to complicate my already complicated life.
The doorbell rings at exactly 8:00. Punctual. I take a breath and straighten my shoulders before opening the door.
"Good morning," Ivy says, her voice neutral, professional.
She looks different today. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she's wearing jeans and an oversized chambray shirt, soft and broken-in—practical clothes for chasing after a five-year-old. It shouldn’t catch me off guard, but it does. How achingly beautiful she is, even like this.
"Morning," I reply, stepping back to let her in but not inviting further conversation. I don't meet her eyes as she passes, catching only the faint scent of something floral—shampoo, maybe.
"Emily's finishing up her breakfast," I say, gesturing toward the kitchen. "She's excited you're here."
I maintain a careful distance as we walk to the kitchen, where Emily sits at the table, syrup smeared across her chin as she works through a stack of pancakes.
"Ivy!" Emily shouts, waving her sticky hands. "Daddy made pancakes 'cause it's Wednesday!"
"Wednesday is pancake day," I explain unnecessarily, busying myself with wiping down the counter. "It's a tradition."
"That sounds like a wonderful tradition," Ivy says, her voice warming as she addresses Emily. She hasn't looked directly at me since arriving.
I clear my throat. "Emily's schedule is on the refrigerator. She has her rec class at the library at three, so you'll need to have her there by 2:45. The library is about ten minutes away—you know where it is, right? Emergency contacts are there too."
Ivy nods, reaching for the piece of paper magnetized to the fridge.
"I'll be back around six," I continue, focusing on zipping up my laptop bag. "Feel free to text if you have any questions, but Emily can show you where everything is. She knows the routine."
"We'll be fine," Ivy says, finally meeting my eyes. There's something there—not longing exactly, but a certain resolve. "Won't we, Emily?"
Emily nods enthusiastically, mouth full of pancake. "We're gonna have so much fun!"
I nod stiffly. "Great. I'll see you both tonight then."
I drop a quick kiss on the top of Emily's head and grab my coffee mug, dumping the cold contents in the sink. I feel Ivy watching me as I shrug on my jacket.
"Have a good day at work," she says, her tone professional but not cold.
"Thanks," I reply, not turning around. I don't trust myself to look at her again. "You too."
The door closes behind me with a decisive click. In my truck, I sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. What the hell was I thinking, kissing her? It was her first day on the job. I'd known her for less than eight hours. And now I've created an uncomfortable situation for everyone involved.
I start the engine and back out of the driveway, catching a glimpse of Emily and Ivy through the kitchen window. Emily is showing Ivy something, her small hands gesturing wildly. Ivy's head is bent toward her, listening intently. The sight makes my chest ache with a peculiar mix of relief and regret.
The driveto Carter Ridge seems unusually long today. Maybe it’s because I’m driving at a slower pace than usual, or perhaps my thoughts are elsewhere, or maybe it's simply that I'd prefer to be anywhere else but at work.
As I park, I notice most of the staff cars are already in the lot. I'm usually the first to arrive.
Inside, conversations halt as I walk through the door. Lisa, the front desk assistant, straightens in her chair and quickly minimizes whatever she was looking at on her computer.
"Good morning, Mr. Carter," she says, her smile too bright. "The quarterly reports are printed and on your desk, and the Henderson family called to confirm their reservation for next weekend."
I nod without returning her smile. "Did you follow up with the Millers about their complaint?"
Lisa's smile falters. "Yes, I sent them the email we discussed with the discount offer for their next stay."
"Let me see it," I say, holding out my hand.
"I—well, I already sent it, but I can forward you a copy?—"
