Page 39 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
I grin. “Chaos, mostly. Went to school in Portland, then stayed for work. Junior designer at a tiny branding agency where I did everything but mop the floor.”
“Sounds familiar,” she says. “I was in Denver for a while, doing freelance copywriting. Moved back about two years ago. Got tired of the rent and the traffic.”
“Same. In my case, I just couldn’t take one more team meeting about artisanal deodorant.”
She snorts. “God. And the influencer economy.”
We laugh and reminisce—school dances, awkward prom dates, the teacher who called Lindsey by the wrong name for two years. The food is good, the drinks better, and for a while, it feels like we never left.
At some point, Jason slips an arm around Lindsey’s shoulders. I catch the glint of a thin silver ring on her finger—simple, elegant, and unmistakably an engagement ring.
“Wait—are you guys engaged?”
Lindsey smiles, brushing a fry through some ketchup. “Yeah. Kind of recent. He finally asked after, what, ten years?”
Jason smirks. “She finally said yes after moving back from Denver.”
“I needed to figure my life out first,” Lindsey says, bumping his arm. “Turns out he was still part of it.”
They both look so easy with each other, like time never even tried to pull them apart.
“Congratulations,” I say, truly happy for them.
And I am. But something twists in my chest as I watch them—comfortable, steady, sure of each other. I used to think I’d have that too, once.
With Nate.
We’d been together nearly two years—he was my boss at the agency in Portland, charming in the way successful creatives often are: sharp, magnetic, always just out of reach. I told myself we were building something—our careers, a life, maybe even a family.
And then he cheated. With a client.
Three weeks later, I was unemployed and unmoored, wondering how I could’ve been so wrong about someone I almost let rewrite my future.
Now, watching Lindsey and Jason laugh like they’ve never questioned each other, I feel the ache of wanting something like that. Something solid. But it still feels so far away—like someone else's dream I borrowed for a while and had to give back.
After dinner,Lindsey leans close. “You feel like singing, or are we dancing?”
Jason raises his hand. “I vote karaoke.”
I take another sip of cider and grin. “Why not both?”
They head off toward the tiny corner stage, already arguing over what duet to pick. I watch them go, warmth blooming in my chest. This is what I needed. A break. A night out. A reminderthat there’s still a world beyond Grant Carter’s house and the complicated heat of his gaze.
I sit back in the booth, nursing my drink, and let myself enjoy the music and the hum of laughter around me.
The Antler hadn’t changed a bit. Same carved moose head above the jukebox, same crooked pool table in the corner. I remember thinking it looked ancient when I was sixteen. It still does. I’d been inside once or twice back then—never to drink, just tagging along while someone older ordered fries and a beer. It was the place older kids talked about—the only “real” bar in town.
I’ve been to trendier bars in Portland. Flashier places with rooftop patios, curated playlists, drinks that cost half a paycheck. But somehow, this place feels warmer. Familiar, in a way I didn’t expect. The glow of amber lights. The hum of low conversation. The scent of grilled meat and beer.
I cradle my drink, still half full, and settle into the quiet of my booth. My eyes drift to the pool table in the corner where a couple of guys are arguing over a shot. I smile to myself, thinking how much and how little changes.
I feel warm and slip off my shrug, leaving just the dress. Sleeveless. Low cut. Bold. I feel good in it. Grown up. Like I’m allowed to take up space again.
And that’s when the door swings open, letting in a burst of cool night air.
Cole Carter walks in like the room’s waiting for him.
I freeze, my glass halfway to my lips. He hasn’t spotted me yet—his gaze scans the room as he adjusts the sleeves of a black button-down rolled up to his elbows. It fits him too well to beaccidental. His jeans are dark, clean, and his boots carry the same confident swagger he does. His hair’s tousled like he just ran a hand through it, and he looks exactly like the kind of trouble my mother once warned me about.
