Page 30 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
For Emily’s sake—for Ivy’s—this ends here.
Tomorrow, I’ll apologize. We’ll reset. We’ll pretend like it didn’t happen. Like I’m still just her boss, and she’s just the nanny.
And if something in me already knows that’s a lie?
I ignore it.
For now.
I head to the kitchen,trying to shove the chaos in my head to the background and focus on something useful. Dinner. Something easy. Something Emily will actually eat.
Pasta it is.
I boil water, fry up some garlic and olive oil, and throw together the simplest version of dinner I can manage. Emily hums behind me at the table, lining up her crayons in rainbow order, completely unbothered by the fact that I’m a train wreck pretending to be a functioning adult.
When I set her plate in front of her, she looks up at me with that bright smile that always hits too hard.
“Thanks, Daddy.”
I nod and try to return it. “You’re welcome, bug.”
She digs in immediately, swinging her legs under the table, humming as she chews.
“So…” I stir my own food but don’t take a bite. “Did you have fun with Ivy today?”
Her eyes light up instantly, her whole face glowing. “Yes! We readThe Great Fox Detectiveand she did the voices. And she drew me a picture of me and Floppy having a picnic. And she made a tent out of the couch pillows and let me be the queen. And she let me wear her sunglasses. And?—”
“Okay, okay,” I laugh, holding up a hand. “That’s a lot of ands.”
“She’s fun,” Emily says with a dreamy sigh, like she’s thinking of a Disney princess. Then she pops a bite of pasta into her mouth and chews with exaggerated contentment.
“You still like her?” I ask.
She nods so fast her curls bounce. “Uh-huh. A lot.”
I look down at my plate. Twirl a forkful. Don’t eat it.
Yeah. Me too.
Except my kind of “like” is exactly what makes this dangerous.
Ivy didn’t push me away earlier. She kissed me back—hell, she melted into it. But then she bolted like the floor was on fire. And I let her go. Because what else was I going to do? Chase her? Say, “Hey, sorry I crossed a line, but wanna come back tomorrow and care for my daughter while I pretend I’m not having a full-on breakdown?”
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead.
God. What if she doesn’t come back?
What if I ruined this already?
I clean up dinner while Emily draws at the table, humming her made-up “Ivy Song,” which has no melody and even fewer lyrics, but still manages to gut me every time she says her name.
Afterward, I give Emily her bath—she makes a bubble crown and insists I call her “Queen Soap”—and tuck her into bed with her favorite fox plushie curled under one arm.
“Will Ivy be here tomorrow?” she asks as I pull the blanket to her chin.
I hesitate. “I hope so.”
“She likes me,” Emily says with sleepy certainty. “I can tell.”
