Page 4 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
I nod, but it doesn’t help. The guilt still presses heavy on my chest. Like I should be doing more. Like I should be able to fix everything—or at least fix myself.
Outside, the wind picks up and carries the smell of the orchard through the slats in the barn wall—sweet and sharp and fading.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket.
Caleb:
Still serious about the job. Come meet Grant tomorrow. 8 a.m.
I stare at the message for a few seconds. Then I look down at my gloves, stained pink with apple juice, and the stack of crates we’ve managed to fill between us.
I don’t know if I want the job. I don’t know if I wantanyjob right now.
But I do know I can’t keep standing still.
I type back:Fine. But if he growls, I’m walking.
2
GRANT
“Don’t just stand there—shut off the valve before you flood the whole line!”
Tanner blinks at me like I’ve just asked him to recite the periodic table in reverse.
"Uh... it’s the green one, right?" he says, already reaching for the red one.
"For the love of—no,notthe red?—"
Too late.
I shove past him and twist the correct valve myself. It groans and gives, and the water pressure drops with a hiss. One last surge shoots out of the cracked coupling, soaking my jeans with icy-cold water.
I kneel in the mud, fingers numb, trying to assess the damage. We’re behind cabin six—the newer one, the one with the cedar porch that Cole was supposed to fix last week. The decorative stone edging is already shifting where the ground’s gotten too wet. If we don’t fix this now, it’s going to rot out the subflooring,and we’ll have guests complaining about soft spots in the deck by Sunday.
“Cole was supposed to fix this,” I mutter to no one in particular.But I’m guessing he got distracted by a tourist in yoga pants again.
Tanner shuffles in the wet gravel behind me, no rush, no urgency.
"Should I... uh... grab a wrench or something?"
"No," I snap, already regretting the question. "Go find Cole. Ask if we’ve got a new half-inch fitting in the shop."
"Oh. Okay." He turns, already pulling out his phone—probably texting someone about how hard his day is going.
I sit back on my heels and rub my hands over my face. My jeans are soaked. My boots squelch when I shift. My patience is down to its final frayed nerve.
This used to be easier. Back when Dad was around. Back when the crew was small but skilled, before we had to rely on temp workers who think plumbing means watching a how-to video. The water line here isn’t even that complicated—just a main branching to a few outdoor spigots and a hot water heater in the crawlspace. But if you don’t shut the right valve, the whole thing backs up, and then I’m the one waist-deep in freezing mud trying to keep the system from bursting. Again.
The Carter Ridge Retreat’s property stretches a good forty acres across the valley, just southeast of Mirror Lake. Ten cabins. A lodge. Three outbuildings. Horses. Gear. Equipment. A trailhead we maintain ourselves. That’s a lot of ground to cover with a skeleton crew and an off-season budget.
Now it’s just me, Caleb, and Cole running the damn place—Caleb handles the horses and the guests, Cole pretends he’s busy fixing things, and I get left with payroll, broken pipes, and patching up the incompetence. Some days I wonder why I don’t just let it all fall apart and go live in a tent. At least then the plumbing would be someone else’s problem.
We rely on a rotating cast of seasonal workers with more enthusiasm than experience, and even less sense. Half of them disappear before the first snowfall. The rest hang around just long enough to leave us hanging when things get busy. And it’s about to get busy. Leaf-peeping season is starting early this year—the aspens are already turning at the top of the ridge.
Mom keeps saying I should hire a full-time housekeeper. Easy for her to say—she’s retired, remarried, and seventy miles away. Or maybe seven hundred. Either way, not here. Not knee-deep in cold water, not fielding last-minute cancellations and plumbing repairs and wondering if I remembered to order more propane for the hot tubs.
My phone rings.
