His Curvy Nanny

Chapter 2: Moving In

AMARA’S POV

The call came three days later.

I nearly dropped my phone reaching for it, spotting the unfamiliar Atlanta area code and hoping as I'd been hoping for three restless days that it was Grant Whitfield's assistant and not another rejection.

"Ms. Johnson." Grant's voice, clipped as ever, no small talk. "The position is yours, if you still want it. The boys asked about you. More than once, actually."

Something warm bloomed in my chest, unexpected and a little embarrassing in its intensity. "I'd love to. Thank you."

"You'll move into the guest suite off the kitchen; it has its own bathroom, separate entrance if you want privacy. I'll have the paperwork ready by Friday. Does that work?"

"That works."

A pause on the line, brief enough that I almost missed it. "Good," he said, and then, like an afterthought, "The boys will be glad."

He hung up before I could respond, and I stood in the middle of my cramped apartment kitchen, phone still pressed to my ear, grinning at absolutely nothing.

Moving day arrived with a truck that was really just my cousin's borrowed pickup, packed with two suitcases, a box of books, and the fraying armchair I refused to leave behind no matter how many times my sister called it an eyesore. It felt almost comical, pulling up outside the Whitfield house with all my worldly belongings crammed into the truck bed, parking behind a car that probably cost more than everything I owned combined.

Elijah was the first one out the door, bounding down the steps before Grant could stop him. "You're really staying! I told Ezra you would."

"Did you now?" I said, hauling a suitcase out of the truck bed before Elijah could try and fail to lift it himself. "Were you taking bets?"

"Ezra bet you'd change your mind." Elijah wrinkled his nose, entirely unbothered by ratting out his brother. "I told him he was wrong."

"Remind me to thank Ezra for his confidence in me."

Grant appeared on the porch then, sleeves rolled up despite the crispness of the morning, and for a second, just a second, something in his expression eased at the sight of his son laughing so easily. Then he seemed to catch himself, straightening, all business again.

"I'll help with the boxes," he said, already moving toward the truck.

"You don't have to—"

"I know." He reached for the box of books before I could argue further, hefting it with an ease that made the muscle in his forearm shift in a way I very determinedly did not notice. "But I'm not going to stand here and watch you carry all of this yourself."

I followed him inside, trying not to notice the easy strength in his stride, the quiet competence of a man who probably didn't ask for help often and wasn't entirely sure how to offer it either.

The guest suite was bigger than my entire apartment. I stood in the doorway for a long moment after Grant set the box down, taking in the crisp white sheets, the private bathroom, the window that looked out over a backyard with a swing set clearly built for two.

"This is..." I trailed off, unsure how to say more than I expected without sounding like I didn't think I deserved it.

"It's fine?" Grant asked, an edge of uncertainty in his voice that surprised me in this composed, unreadable man, suddenly unsure if a guest room met my approval.

"It's perfect," I said, and meant it.

He nodded once, sharp, like the matter was settled, and turned to go, pausing at the door.

"Dinner's at six," he said. "The boys eat early. I usually eat after they're down, but—" He stopped, seeming to reconsider something. "You're welcome to join us. All of us. If you want."

It was such a small thing. A dinner invitation, awkwardly offered by a man who clearly wasn't used to extending them. But I felt it land somewhere unexpected anyway.

"I'd like that," I said.

Dinner was chaos in the best way: Elijah narrating an elaborate story about a dragon he'd invented at school, Ezra quietly sliding his broccoli onto his brother's plate when he thought no one was looking, me laughing so hard at one point that I nearly choked on my water. Grant sat at the head of the table, mostly quiet, but I caught him watching the scene more than once: his sons, loud and unfiltered and happy, and me in the middle of it, not trying to be anything other than exactly what I was.

Later, after the boys were bathed and tucked in, I handled bedtime with an ease that made Grant linger in the doorway of Ezra's room a beat longer than necessary. I found myself back in the kitchen, restless with the strange, unfamiliar feeling of a first night somewhere new.

Grant was there too, two glasses and a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, looking like a man debating whether to offer me one.

"Long day," he said, by way of explanation, pouring a glass and sliding it across to me without quite asking.

"Good day," I corrected, and something in his expression shifted not quite a smile, but close to it. Closer than anything I'd seen from him yet.

"They like you," he said. "Elijah, obviously. But Ezra doesn't warm up to people. Not like that."

"He's careful," I said. "Nothing wrong with that."

"No," Grant agreed, quiet. "There isn't."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, just charged in a way I couldn't quite name, standing in his kitchen with a glass of wine I hadn't asked for, very aware of how close he was standing, how his eyes lingered on me a beat longer than an employer's should.

"Well," I said, setting the glass down before the moment could stretch any further. "Early morning tomorrow. I should turn in."

Grant nodded, stepping back like he too had noticed something dangerous in the space between us. "Goodnight, Amara."

It was the first time he'd used my first name.

I thought about that a lot longer than I probably should have, lying awake in my new room, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of a house that was slowly, cautiously, starting to feel like it might one day be home.