Page 7 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
“She won’t. I promise.” He grins again, that maddening younger-brother confidence oozing out like sap. “Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”
I open my truck door and mutter, “You say that every time things go sideways.”
He claps the roof of my truck. “That’s because it’s always true.”
3
IVY
Ican’t believe I’m here.
I turn off the ignition and just sit there in my Subaru, parked in front of Grant Carter’s house, my hands still clutched around the steering wheel like it's going to save me. The engine ticks as it cools. The only sound outside is the rustle of aspen leaves and the faint whistle of the wind. No welcoming committee. No sign of life at all.
The house is tucked against a line of pines, not far from the main Carter property where the brothers grew up. Caleb told me it was custom-built by Grant and his dad, before he got married. I can see the craftsmanship in it—sturdy, symmetrical, honest. A mix of weathered wood and stone, with a wide porch and thick beams that look like they were meant to survive a blizzard or a war. It’s beautiful, in that rugged, masculine way. And intimidating as hell.
I’ve never been here before. Never been invited. Not that I ever expected to be.
I reach for my bag, then pause, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror. I look fine. Professional-ish. Clean jeans, a button-up, boots that aren’t too scuffed. My hair’s doing that halfway decent thing it sometimes manages when the humidity cooperates. Still, my stomach twists.
What the hell am I doing?
Caleb asked me for a favor. That’s how this started. And Caleb is hard to say no to.
He’s been like a big brother to me ever since Ben left for Denver after graduation. For three years, Caleb was the one who showed up to the school plays—sitting in the audience when my parents got stuck working late at the orchard. He brought me soup when I had the flu, helped me jump my car in the grocery store parking lot when no one else was around. He’s the one who gave me that first push toward leaving town in the first place.
So when he suggested yesterday that Grant needed a nanny—just until things settled down—I said I’d think about it. Which apparently meant yes, because now I’m here.
At Grumpy Grant’s.
I’ve seen him around town, of course. You can’t live in Silvercreek and not know who Grant Carter is. Oldest of the Carter brothers. Keeper of cabins, growler of greetings. If Caleb’s a warm bonfire, Grant’s the smoldering coal under it. Quiet. Intense. Always watching.
He used to scare the hell out of me when I was a teenager. Still kind of does.
But it’s not just fear.
There’s something else about him. Something I’ve never been able to name. Like standing too close to a thunderstorm. You know you should step back, but part of you wants to see if lightning will strike.
I take a deep breath, grab my bag, and open the door.
Here goes nothing.
The porch steps creak under my boots as I make my way up. There's no doorbell, just a heavy iron knocker shaped like a bear’s head.
I hesitate for half a second, then lift it and knock—three short raps.
Nothing.
Then footsteps.
Heavy ones. Slow and deliberate, like the person on the other side is taking their time or making a point. Probably both.
The door swings open.
Grant Carter fills the frame.
He’s barefoot, wearing a faded gray T-shirt and jeans that look like they’ve seen actual battle. His dark hair is still damp, like he just stepped out of the shower—or maybe dunked his head in cold water to prepare for this exact moment. His expression is unreadable. Not cold, exactly. But not welcoming either.
“Ivy,” he says, like the word tastes strange in his mouth.
