Page 14 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
And still…
She sat on that floor with my daughter and made her laugh.
I run a hand through my hair and mutter, “You’re looking for a nanny, not a wife.”
So what if Ivy’s not gentle and sweet? What does any of that matter, if she’s the first person in two years who got Emily to light up like that?
I stand, suddenly, and head out of my office.
Emily is lying on the couch in the living room, curled up with her fox toy, legs tucked under her. She looks up as I approach, eyes wary.
“Where are you going?” she asks softly.
I grab my keys from the hook by the door and glance back at her. “To find Ivy.”
She sits up straighter, the fox toy still clutched in her hands. “Can I come?”
“I was counting on it,” I say.
Her whole face lifts—bright, hopeful. She slides off the couch and into her shoes without me even having to ask.
And God help me, when she smiles, I smile back.
5
IVY
By the time I get home, I’ve almost convinced myself I overreacted.
Almost.
I kick off my boots by the back door and change into an old pair of jeans and a loose sweatshirt that smells faintly of orchard dust and laundry soap. My hair goes up in a messy twist, and I swipe on some sunscreen from habit more than intention. I don’t even pause before heading out to the orchard.
Dad’s truck is gone. He mentioned something about delivering apples to the café this morning, which means I won’t see him till after lunch.
I head for the trees.
The rows are long and sun-dappled, the air cool but warming fast. Early fall in Silvercreek always carries a kind of stubborn sweetness—like the season’s trying to hang on just a little longer. I find one of the farmhands, Luis, picking along the north row. He gives me a nod, and I grab a second bucket to join him.
We work in silence for a while, just the sound of apples thudding gently into the canvas sacks, leaves rustling overhead.
The rhythm helps. It always does.
Still, my thoughts churn.
That stupid interview. That infuriating man. The way he looked at me like I was an open question he didn’t want to waste time answering.
After a while, my shoulders ache, and the bins are half full. I haul my bucket toward the barn to sort. The wooden structure looms ahead, its big sliding doors cracked open, and the smell of apples and sawdust hits me before I even step inside.
Mom’s at the sorting table, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled. She looks up in surprise when she sees me.
“I thought you were going to babysit Grant Carter’s little girl,” she says.
I drop the bucket beside the crate stack. “Didn’t get the job.”
Mom straightens, eyes narrowing just a little. “Why not?”
I shrug. “I’m not good enough for him, I guess.”
