“That too.” He giggled, and then, “VIERA, COME TO MY ROOM FOR STORY TIME!”
Rip yawned like he needed his ears to pop from the noise, earning a laugh from me and Ben as Viera came zooming into the room. “I here!”
“Someone really needs to have a discussion about volume in this house,” I grumbled, eyeing Rip.
“Kids, don’t yell.” He smirked at me while saying it, probably well aware that I wanted to strangle him, then straddle him to the ground and kiss my way up and down his body.
“Aunt Colby? Are you OK?” Viera tugged on my shirt. “You’ve been staring at Uncle Rip like he’s a cookie!”
My face flushed.
Rip licked his lips.
How dare he!
In front of the kids!
Damn it!
I snapped out of it. “St-story time.” I sat next to Ben on the bed and pulled Viera into my lap. “There once was a princess—”
“Who found her prince,” Rip said smoothly.
“But he turned out to be a frog,” I added with a glare.
He crossed his arms. “Maybe the frog forgot he was a prince, which meant he had bad manners. You know, when frogs live in captivity they’re seventy percent more likely to have attitude problems.”
“And you one hundred percent made that up.” I jabbed a finger at him.
“Google it,” he challenged.
“I’m not falling for that again. Last time you told me to Google about the life expectancy of a goat after it drank its own milk and I actually did it and looked stupid!”
He pressed his lips together. “Yeah, that was hilarious.”
“Goats drink their own milk?” Ben asked in a horrified voice. “Does that mean I have to drink my own milk?”
I patted his head. “Nobody’s milking you, Ben.”
“Where do babies get milk?” Viera asked.
“Er, so this frog…” I cleared my throat.
“Prince,” Rip corrected.
I looked heavenward. “Fine, this frog prince”—I made air quotes—“finally got his head out of… his pond—”
“Nice,” Rip said under his breath.
“And the princess was curious why he was suddenly so willing to breathe the fresh air and talk to her instead of stare at his own reflection in the pond and bask in his own presence.”
Rip snorted. “Maybe your perception was off the whole time; maybe the frog was staring at the princess’s reflection but was too scared to admit it. Maybe he was scared to admit that all he’d ever known was the pond, and she wanted him to go to a new pond, a scarier, bigger pond, and then another, and another—”
“Well, maybe he should have just grown—er—up and admitted the truth rather than make her feel like her pond was too messy.”
“Her pond is messy,” Rip said.
“Messy isn’t bad,” I countered.