Page 16 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
And I say, “Yes.”
Ten minutes later,I’m in Grant Carter’s truck—same jeans, same button-up, same stunned disbelief.
Ivy Walker: officially employed.
And my boss? Grumpy. Jerk. Grant.
I slide into the back seat beside Emily, who’s happily swinging her legs and holding her fox puppet like it’s part of the family. The truck smells faintly of leather and cedar—clean, no-nonsense. The bench-style back seat is wide and firm, the kind that doesn’t invite naps, just transport.
Grant closes the driver’s door with a solid thunk and glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Seatbelt.”
“I got it,” I say, already buckling in.
He doesn’t comment further. Just puts the truck into drive and pulls away from the barn.
Emily hums quietly beside me, her shoulder brushing mine now and then as we bump along the gravel road. She smells like apples and strawberry shampoo.
“I usually need someone on weekdays,” Grant says, keeping his eyes on the road. “Sometimes on weekends. I work at home on weekends except when there are events at Carter Ridge, but we’ll play that by ear.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding like I’m already jotting it down in a mental planner.
“Start time is eight a.m. sharp. I have a meeting most mornings. End time varies—anywhere from four to six. Depends on how things shake out. ”
“Got it.”
“You’ll need to prep her lunch, handle pickup from the afternoon rec class at the library on Wednesdays, and make sure she getsthirty minutes of reading time and at least an hour of outdoor play.”
“Sure.”
“No TV unless it’s a nature documentary series. Not the one with cartoon animals, the one with real wildlife footage. She likes anything with foxes.”
“Great.”
“No sugar after noon. She gets restless at bedtime. She’ll try to sneak gummies—don’t let her. And no more than one juice box a day. Unless it’s diluted.”
“Okay.”
“And if she says she doesn’t need sunscreen, she’s lying.”
Beside me, Emily doesn’t look away from the window. “I’m not lying,” she mutters. “I just don’t like the sticky kind.”
I glance down at her, surprised by the quiet defiance in her tone.
Grant snorts softly. “You see?”
“There’s a schedule on the fridge. Stick to it as closely as possible. She thrives on routine. Also, don’t let her pick her own clothes unless you want her to look like a mismatched acrobat.”
“Sounds fun.”
He doesn’t laugh. “It’s not.”
By the time we hit the main road back toward his house, I’ve been handed at least twenty directives, some bordering on micromanagement, others bordering on… affectionate paranoia.I lose track somewhere betweenno red dyeandfox puppet must be in sight during story time.
For a second, I almost regret saying yes.
Almost.
But then I glance down at Emily, who’s holding my index finger in her small hand. She’s leaned lightly against me, blinking out the window with that dreamy expression kids get when they’ve made peace with a long ride.
