Page 31 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
“Yeah,” I whisper, brushing a damp curl off her forehead. “I can tell too.”
I kiss her temple, switch off the lamp, and close the door behind me.
And then I stand in the hallway, spine pressed to the wall, head tipped back.
I kissed Ivy Walker.
And I liked it.
More than I should.
And now I’m scared as hell of what comes next.
In the bathroom,I stare at the mirror above the sink. I look tired. The lines around my mouth are deeper, the stubble at myjaw more salt than pepper. I strip out of my shirt, peeling it over my head, and shuck my jeans. In the shower, the water is nearly too hot, and I stand under it until my skin glows pink. I scrub at the day—dirt under my nails, sweat at my chest, a smear of spaghetti sauce I only notice now. Even then, the feeling doesn't go away. The need. The ache.
I towel off, toss my clothes into the laundry basket, and snag a cold beer from the fridge on my way to the couch. The house is silent except for the tick of the kitchen clock and the faint hum of the fridge compressor. I pop the top, take a long swallow, and let my mind drift to Ivy.
I don't want to. I do it anyway.
The way her lips tasted like apple and sugar, the little gasp she made when I pressed in, the heat of her palm flat against my chest. She’s younger than me, ten years at least, but she carries herself older, like the world’s already worn her down a bit. I like that. I like the way her eyes spark when she’s angry. I like the way she never talks down to Emily, or to me.
I pick up my phone and swipe through a couple of social media notifications, then, out of habit, click over to a porn site. I scroll past the thumbnails—blondes with plastic smiles, brunettes in push-up bras, girls younger than Ivy, older than her, nothing that does it for me. I close the tab and toss the phone onto the coffee table.
I finish the beer, set the empty can down, and lean back into the couch cushions. My hand drifts under the waistband of my boxers, just to see if I’m actually as wound up as I feel. I am. The pressure’s almost painful. I haven’t jerked off in years, not since I met Liz. Since she passed, I haven’t even felt the urge. Grief has a way of strangling every instinct. It’s only now, with Ivy’s tastestill burning my tongue, that I remember what it’s like to want something more than numbness.
I let myself drift, eyes closed, one hand around myself, slow and deliberate. I try to picture some generic body, faceless, someone I’ll never meet. But every time it’s Ivy—her laugh, her hair, her hand on my wrist. I picture her in that summer dress she wore to Emily’s school picnic, the way it clung to her hips when she bent down to tie a shoe. I picture her looking up at me, lips parted, pupils blown wide with want.
I pump my hand, not fast, but steady. I imagine her mouth, the wet heat of her tongue, the scratch of her nails up my ribs. The fantasy takes shape: Ivy backing me up against the pantry door, yanking her own shirt off, her nipples hard and pink, my hands full of her ass, her legs wrapped tight around my waist. She gasps into my ear, "Don’t stop." She never once tells me to stop.
I come, sharp and sudden, into my own fist. My body jerks, a full-body shudder, the way it did when I was seventeen and didn’t know what to do with all the need inside me. I catch my breath, wipe my hand on a paper towel, and just sit there, heart hammering.
After a while, I get up and walk to the bathroom, wash my hands, and look myself in the mirror again. I look the same. Maybe a little more hollowed out.
“Keep it together,” I tell my reflection. The guy in the mirror doesn’t answer.
I splash cold water on my face, dry off with a hand towel, and stand there until the chill sinks into my bones. Then I go to bed, alone, the way I have for the past year. I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Ivy’s lying awake too.Wondering if she’s thinking about me. Wondering if tomorrow, she’ll show up at the door, or if she’ll call and say she’s done.
And then I reach for my phone and type.
10
CALEB
Idrive with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the windowsill. The sun’s starting to dip low, painting the orchards in that soft, golden light that makes everything feel slower, quieter. Ivy sits beside me, barely making a sound. She’s messing with a loose thread on her sleeve, like it might unravel something else entirely if she pulls too hard.
I don’t ask her about Grant. Not right away.
Because I already have a damn good idea.
I’ve known my brother too long, and I know Ivy well enough to read between the lines. She looked shell-shocked when I pulled into that driveway. Wide-eyed and flushed like she’d either seen a ghost or kissed one.
Still, I try to keep it easy. “Thanks for agreeing to help out,” I say. “I know Grant can be… well, you know.”
She lets out a small laugh. That’s good. Laughter is good. Means she’s still breathing.
“Yeah,” she says. “I know.”
I glance at her—just for a second. The way she’s holding herself makes me want to pull the car over and ask point-blank what the hell my brother did. But I don’t. Ivy’s not a kid. And she’s clearly trying to process whatever went down back there.
