Page 15 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
“Nonsense.” She reaches for a cull apple and sets it in the lower bin. “You’re great with kids. You used to babysit the Durhams’ twins every summer, remember? And your cousin Wyatt used to cry when you left.”
“Well, Grumpy Grant doesn’t think so.” I bite down harder than I mean to. “He thinks just because I quit my job in Portland, I can’t do anything else.”
A throat clears behind me.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I freeze.
That voice. Low. Familiar. Dread-inducing.
I spin around so fast my elbow nearly knocks over a sorting crate.
Grant Carter stands in the barn doorway, tall and unmistakably solid in his dark flannel and jeans. Next to him is a small figure clutching his hand—Emily, fox puppet tucked under her arm, eyes wide but hopeful.
My jaw drops. Literally.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. Just a stunned breath.
Mom gets there first.
“Well, Mr. Carter,” she says, polite but not exactly warm. “What do you want?”
Grant hesitates. His hand flexes around Emily’s. For a moment, I think he might bolt. But then Emily tugs his arm, and something shifts in his posture.
He clears his throat. “Good morning, Mrs. Walker. I’m here to apologize to Ivy.”
My heart stutters.
“I’m sorry about what I said about your employment history,” he says. “And I… I would like you to—” He stops, looks down at Emily, then back up at me. “—to be Emily’s nanny.”
I blink. Once. Twice. Still no words.
I glance at Mom, silently askingis this real?
Mom composes herself quickly, though I can see the faint flicker of surprise in her eyes.
“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, Grant,” she says. “Because you won’t find anyone better than Ivy.”
“Mom,” I whisper, half mortified, half still trying to catch up with reality.
“I know.” Grant’s voice is quieter now. “I realized I made a mistake. And I hope it’s not too late to fix it.”
He’s not looking at my mom anymore. He’s looking at me.
Mom turns to me. “Well, it’s up to you, sweetheart. Do you want to work for Mr. Carter?”
I hesitate.
And then Emily steps forward and takes my hand in her small one.
“Please, Ivy,” she says softly.
I look down at her. At the hopeful tilt of her face. At the trust in her eyes.
And something inside me—something tight and tired and bruised—starts to unclench.
I smile.
