Page 17 of Rubber Duckie Shifter Next Door

“Right. And I want you in school every day, no arguments, you hear me?”

They nod emphatically.

Rachel and I share a smile, and I get to my feet. “Now, who wants to stop by the gift shop before we head home? I think there are some rubber duckies with your names on them. One each. On the house.”

The kids cheer, and the moment I point them in the right direction, they take off. A very relieved-looking Reaper follows. The man can manage a fully staffed kitchen, but give him an upset child, and he falls apart.

Rachel and I follow, and she grins up at me. There’s a pep in her step that wasn’t there earlier. It’s like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders and the sun has come out from behind the clouds. Which just goes to show how exhausting fighting with the kids must have been for her.

Rachel’s eyes twinkle, and that spark makes her a hundred times more gorgeous and irresistible. It takes everything in me not to pull her into my arms and claim her right on the spot.

She threads her fingers through mine, and my self-control almost snaps. “Thank you, Sig,” she says softly. “Seriously. You don’t know how stressed I’ve been.”

“I can imagine.” Because the difference really is like night and day.

I can also see this woman working on a cruise and traveling the world. And I don’t want her to lose that joy. Not when she doesn’t have to.

I pull her to a stop and turn to face her. “Rachel, I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy, thanks to you!” She smiles broadly up at me.

“I don’t mean right now. I mean always.” I take her other hand in mine. “Being a responsible adult doesn’t mean you have to give up your own happiness. Responsible doesn’t have to mean boring. You can still travel. Have fun. Work by the pool. Those things won’t make you a bad guardian. And an office job won’t make you a good one.”

“I know…” She sighs. “But I need a steady income. And I don’t want to cruise anymore, not if it takes me away from the kids.”

“Then come work at Rubber Duckie World.”

It’s the perfect solution. I own the most fun place in the world. But Rachel shakes her head. “You don’t have to give me a job, Sig.”

“I don’t have to. I want to. And you’d be good at it.” At her skeptical look, I add, “You have experience.”

“Giving scuba lessons to adults isn’t experience.”

“Transferable skills, then. And you can learn to run the rides or give tours. There are so many different jobs at a waterpark, and they’re all better than a desk job.” The thought of being cooped up in an office all day makes my heart hurt.

Rachel hesitates, and for a second I think I’ve gotten through to her, but then she shakes her head. “Sig, I appreciate it. I really do. But I need to figure this out on my own. And I’ve spent a year studying IT. I’m actually kind of good at it. I don’t know if I’ll like it. Maybe I won’t. But I at least want to give it a shot.”

“Then I’m with you.” And I am. I’ll always support her, no matter what. It’s just too soon to tell her. But it doesn’t stop me from blurting out, “Would you give me a shot, too? Just to get to know you better. Please?”

I sound like a desperate fool and feel a sudden urge to jump into the Quackie River, shift, and let the current take me away. But I’m glad that I don’t, because Rachel breaks into a huge grin.

Her next words floor me. “I’d like that, too.”

Chapter 8

Rachel

The next morning, Sig comes over bright and early and keeps me from burning the eggs and setting the toast on fire. Breakfast is a blast. The kids no longer hate me, and everything goes as smoothly as the butter we spread on Sig’s perfectly golden slices of toast.

I’m convinced the man can do anything until I find out he can’t drive. His cheeks flush an adorable pink as he admits he doesn’t have his license. And he still seems a little flustered as I maneuver Ada’s old van out of the driveway and drop the kids off at school.

The old clunker doesn’t have Bluetooth, so Sig takes charge of the radio. And since the A/C doesn’t work, we roll down our windows to keep cool. Both are a pain, and I add a vehicle upgrade to the top of my mental list of things I plan to save up for once I find work.

I can’t blame the van for how torturous the drive is. That’s all Sig’s fault.

My traitorous hands long to touch the man sitting next to me, and I hold on to the steering wheel like a lifeline, so I don’t do something I regret. But how am I supposed to resist his just-rolled-out-of-bed hair or those tanned, muscular biceps? It’s like he’s begging to be touched. I long to squeeze his muscular thigh and run my hand up… up… up… until…

I gulp and grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.