Page 8 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
“Grant.” I smile, or try to.
We stare at each other for a beat too long. Then he steps aside.
“Come in.”
His voice is low. Rough. Like gravel under boot soles.
I step past him into the house, and immediately feel like I’ve walked into a place where silence is king. It smells like cedar and coffee and something faintly metallic—tools, maybe. The living room is neat, but not lived-in. Like someone cleaned it for the sake of the interview but didn’t bother pretending they enjoy guests.
He shuts the door behind me, the thunk of it making me flinch just a little.
“You want coffee?” he asks.
“Um… sure.”
He turns and disappears into the kitchen without waiting for a real answer.
I hover near the entryway, then take a cautious step forward into the living room. The space is quiet but lived-in, warmed by soft light filtering through the wide windows. A wool blanket is draped over the back of the couch, and a pair of tiny sneakers sit neatly by the hearth. A basket of toys—a fox puppet, some wooden blocks, and what looks like a very well-loved book about cabin construction —rests by the fireplace.
The walls are lined with sturdy bookshelves, mostly nonfiction, with a few children’s titles tucked between thick manuals and paperbacks with creased spines. The furniture is simple but comfortable: overstuffed cushions, worn leather, handmade end tables. Everything feels functional, solid, intentional. Like someone took time to build not just a house, but a place to hold real life.
Above the mantle, there’s a small cluster of framed photographs. I glance at them without meaning to, drawn in. One shows Grant in a flannel shirt, laughing, one arm around a woman with golden-brown hair and a soft smile—Liz. Between them is a much younger Emily, all chubby cheeks and wide eyes, perched on her dad’s shoulders.
Grant is smiling in the picture.
A real smile. Not the grim line he wears now like armor.
I exhale slowly. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe being here won’t be the disaster I thought it would be.
This is going well.
A creakon the stairs pulls my attention. I glance up and see Emily. She's standing there in socks and a cotton dress, her fox clutched tight in her arms. She peers at me like she’s not quite sure if I’m real.
“Hi there,” I say gently, crouching to her level. “You must be Emily. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
She blinks, then takes a cautious step into the room.
“Is Copper shy too?” I ask, nodding to the stuffed animal.
She clutches the fox tighter, but there’s the tiniest hint of a smile. “He talks to nice people.”
“Well, that’s lucky,” I say, sitting cross-legged on the rug. “Because I’m trying very hard to be one of those.”
She approaches, slowly, and settles down in front of me. In seconds, the toy basket is open, and she’s pulling out blocks. We build a crooked tower while she tells me Copper’s favorite foods,carrots and marshmallows, and that sometimes he gets scared of thunder. I nod solemnly and agree that thunder is a valid thing to be scared of.
“Ivy,” she says, placing a block very carefully, “do you live in the woods?”
I smile. “Nope. Just down the road, with a lot of trees and nosy squirrels.”
She giggles. It's soft and warm and honest. My chest aches a little.
Then I hear footsteps behind me. I glance up.
Grant is standing in the doorway, mug in hand, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. He’s watching us, unreadable as ever. He says something low into the phone—something about rescheduling—and then ends the call.
Emily doesn’t notice. She’s too busy deciding which block should be the door.
Grant steps forward. “Emily. Go grab your sweater from your room.”
