Page 26 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
I raise a brow. “This?”
“The whole arrangement.” His grin turns wicked. “What did you think I meant?”
I don’t answer. He winks at me before heading back to his Jeep, Emily waving wildly from the porch as he pulls away.
I close the door behind me, heart still thudding. Grant Carter might be trouble.
But Cole?
He’s a whole different kind.
8
IVY
Emily and I are on the rug, surrounded by puzzle pieces and plastic animals. She’s narrating a story about a fox and a ballerina dinosaur—apparently, they live in a castle and have tea every Tuesday.
I pretend to sip my imaginary tea and nod solemnly. “Does the fox like honey in hers?”
“Only on Tuesdays,” she says, like that explains everything.
I smile, her world easy and bright, and I almost don’t hear the front door creak open.
Emily does. “Daddy!”
I look up just in time to see Grant step inside, his hair tousled from the wind, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a faint grease smudge on his wrist. The way Emily barrels into him nearly knocks him off his feet, but he catches her with ease.
“Hey, peanut,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple. His eyes meet mine over her shoulder, and something unspoken passesbetween us—something that tightens my throat before I can name it.
“I should probably clean up before I go,” I say, rising to my feet and brushing invisible lint from my jeans.
Grant nods, distracted by Emily’s tale of the day. “You don’t have to,” he says without looking.
I gather the toys, toss them into the basket by the fireplace, and straighten the cushions. I smooth the blanket draped over the back of the couch. My exit is almost complete when I notice a sticky cup on the coffee table. Without thinking, I carry it to the kitchen.
The sun has dipped lower, pouring amber light across the counters. I run the tap, rinsing the cup, letting the warm water trickle over my fingers. It feels grounding—real—after a long, strange day.
Behind me, footsteps.
“You don’t have to do that,” Grant says. “You’ve already done enough.”
“I’m almost done,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder.
He moves beside me anyway, setting something else in the sink—Emily’s cereal bowl from the morning, I think.
His presence fills the kitchen. Not just physically, though he’s tall and solid beside me—but something more. His nearness changes the air.
I reach to grab the rinsed cup from the drying rack, but my fingers are damp and the cup slips.
“Ah—”
We both lunge for it.
His hand lands over mine. Firm, warm.
The cup clinks into the sink, unbroken.
But we don’t move.
