Page 5 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
I wipe my hand on my shirt and answer. "Yeah?"
Emily’s wailing in the background before the nanny even speaks.
“Mr. Carter, hi, it’s—um—Shannon. I’ve tried putting her down twice and offered her a snack, but she’s still crying, and she keeps asking for?—”
“Have you actually talked to her?” I snap. “Read her a book? Sat with her? Or was handing her a granola bar your full plan?”
“I—I was told to encourage independence?—”
“She’s five,” I say, sharp. “Encouraging independence doesn’t mean ignoring her when she’s upset. She needs comfort, not distance.”
A pause. More crying in the background.
"I—I’m doing my best," she says weakly.
"Well, your best isn’t good enough. I’ll be there in ten."
I hang up.
That’s the third nanny in two months.
I toss my phone into the passenger seat and climb into the truck, jaw tight, boots still soaked from Tanner’s mud puddle. Emily’s crying voice is still echoing in my head, a mix of frustration and exhaustion I know too well.
She’s five. She shouldn't have to cry herself hoarse just to get someone to listen.
She’s sensitive—bright and curious, but easily overwhelmed. Some days, it’s like her feelings don’t fit inside her little body. I don’t blame her. Not for any of it.
What kills me is not being there when she needs me. What kills me more is knowing I can’t be.
I slam the door shut, gripping the steering wheel like it owes me something. I don’t trust any of these temp hires—not the ones from the agency, not the ones Caleb found through word of mouth. None of them know how to handle her. They all crack the first time she throws a fit or asks a question they don’t have a neat little answer for.
Where the hell is Caleb, anyway? He was supposed to be checking in the guests from the Boulder group by now. Probablystill chatting with them about hiking trails and the best time to spot elk, like that’s going to solve our infrastructure issues. He means well—he always does—but sometimes I wish he’d stop trying to make everyone feel good and just help keep the place standing.
I start the engine, shift into reverse, but before I can back out, Caleb pulls into the lot from the side road, window down, sunglasses on, looking like he’s been having himself a real nice day.
Of course he has.
His SUV is cleaner than my truck and doesn’t make the same concerning rattle under the hood when he idles. He parks beside me like this is all perfectly normal and grins like an idiot.
“Sorry, man. Took a long lunch,” he says, all casual, like he’s not walking in on a full-blown disaster.
I snort. “What was it, a two-hour sandwich tasting? Or did you finally find that perfect locally sourced kombucha?”
He chuckles. “Mockery looks good on you, Grant. Real healthy outlet for stress.”
“Stress?” I slam the door shut and round the truck. “I just fired a nanny who thought the best way to handle my daughter’s tantrum was to ‘encourage independence.’ She’s five, Caleb. If she were old enough to be independent, she wouldn’t need a damn nanny, would she?”
He winces, then smirks. “Yikes. I’m sorry, man. You all right? You sound... crispy. And why are your jeans soaked? You didn’t?—”
“No, I didn’t piss my pants,” I snap. “I was fixing the pipe behind Cabin Six. Cole was supposed to handle it last week.”
“Why didn’t you just let Tanner deal with it?”
I laugh dryly. “Tanner? You mean the guy who nearly twisted the wrong valve and flooded the line? Yeah, that would’ve ended well.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Okay, fair. But didn’t he say he had plumbing experience?”
“He also said he knew how to read a site map. Then asked me what PVC stands for.”
