Page 23 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
I let out a long, shaky breath.
Okay.
It takes me a few seconds to unclench. My shoulder still tingles where he brushed past me in that too-small hallway, and the memory of his voice—low, gravelly, almost warm—lingers in my ears like an echo. For a guy with all the emotional range of a tree stump, he sure knows how to invade a room without trying.
And his smile? God help me. The one in the photo had nothing on the real thing —breaking through his usual scowl like sunlight through storm clouds. Brief. Unexpected. Devastating.
I shake my head. No. Don’t do this.
He’s your boss. Your grumpy, broody, annoyingly attractive boss. With a kid.
And a past.
Whatever flickered between us back there doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.
I press my palms to my cheeks, still warm, and force myself to breathe.
Focus, Ivy.
This job matters. Emily matters.
I walk back into the living room where Emily is now curled up with her fox toy again, gently brushing its tail with a small, soft-bristled doll brush.
“Hey, you,” I say, kneeling beside her. “What should we do now?”
She looks up with that thoughtful, serious expression I’m already coming to recognize—wide eyes, slightly tilted head, like she’s weighing the pros and cons of every answer.
Then she says, “Can we play the restaurant game?”
I smile. “Only if I get to be the very picky customer.”
Her eyes light up. “Yes!”
We set up at the coffee table. She disappears into the play kitchen tucked into the corner and returns with plastic vegetables and two chipped cups. I scribble out a pretend menu on the back of a grocery list I found on the fridge, and we’re off—ordering, serving, giggling through fake food disasters andoverly dramatic complaints about soup that’s “too green” and juice that “tastes like socks.”
It’s easy. Natural. She’s easy to love, even when she’s bossy or distracted or suddenly quiet for no clear reason. And when she leans against my arm to show me how to stir “magic soup” with a spatula that looks like it’s been chewed on, my chest tugs in a way that’s warm and painful all at once.
I glance toward the door.
No sign of Grant.
Good.
Better, maybe.
Because this—this job, this house, this strange new rhythm I’ve stumbled into—feels almost too fragile. Like if I let my heart get involved, it’ll all slip through my fingers.
Still, when Emily grabs my hand and pulls me toward the backyard for “secret garden adventures,” I follow without hesitation.
Maybe I can figure the rest out later.
Emily eatsher grilled cheese and apple slices like she’s a judge on a cooking show—carefully, thoughtfully, as if there’s a right and wrong way to chew.
“I like the crust,” she declares halfway through, which feels like winning a small, quiet victory.
After lunch, I wipe her hands and lead her to her room. She yawns and asks if I’ll stay with her until she falls asleep. I nod and sit on the edge of her little bed, rubbing slow circles acrossher back as she curls around her fox toy. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, lashes resting against soft cheeks.
I tiptoe out, pulling the door until it clicks shut behind me. The house is still.
