Kittenfish: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Brenda Lowder

  Kent places the next meat selection on the grill. This one’s pork belly. I’m so excited I clap my hands. Kya and Tarek look at me as if I’ve applauded at a funeral.

  Trina gives a throaty giggle and leans toward me. “You’ve got a real lust for life, haven’t you, Marissa?”

  I laugh. Lust. “I guess you could say that.” I think I have a lust for something. I reach across Tarek for the bowl of salad greens with the pepper paste dressing, and my arm brushes his. He blanches and yanks his arm back like I’ve burned him. I pretend not to notice and dish myself up some salad. I stifle a giggle. Our closet kissing has made Tarek uncomfortable around me. He looks downright scared. If I’d known I’d have this effect on him, I’d have kissed him years ago. It’s effectively put an end to his teasing and baiting me. I should’ve bitten the bullet and kissed him back in fifth grade.

  “You okay?” Kya’s gaze is clouded with worry.

  He nods and offers her an un-Tarek-like close-lipped smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

  Kya glances at me and frowns.

  “And here’s the last of the meats,” Kent announces. “Bulgogi.”

  “I love bulgogi!” I wave my chopsticks in delight and do a happy dance in my seat. All three of them turn toward me with a scowl.

  “What?” I grab a big piece of the flavorful meat and stick it in my mouth. Talking past it I say, “I’m in LOVE with Korean BBQ,” I tell them.

  ∞∞∞

  Giselle Bisset

  Since I’ve been back in Berlin, I’ve come to realize that the U.S. is my real home, and I’m missing it.

  Tarek Oliver

  It misses you.

  That was corny. Never mind. I guess I’m just a little distracted lately. Not sure what life is throwing at me.

  Giselle Bisset

  Has work got you down?

  Tarek Oliver

  Oh, I’m fine. I’m happy. But I’ll be even happier when you’re back.

  ∞∞∞

  “Archival penis enlargement and custom framing? Seriously?” I slap the latest error-filled classified ad on Blaire’s desk. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Blaire glances up from filing her nails, a saucy look in her eyes. “Generally or specifically?”

  I jab my finger at the offending ad, and she pretends to have trouble understanding. I pick it up and hold it three inches from her face.

  “Oh,” she says when she’s read it. “I think it was supposed to be archival picture enlargement and custom framing.” She sits back.

  “Ya think?” I glare at her.

  She shrugs, puts her feet up on her desk, and goes back to filing her nails.

  I sigh and pull up a chair.

  “The ad was placed by an older lady. In her eighties. Wearing a hat.” I search Blaire’s face for a sign of remorse, but her armor’s not cracking. “Why would you mess up her ad like this?”

  Finally, Blaire puts down her emery board and regards me squarely.

  “I made a mistake, Marissa. I’m sorry you had to deal with the fallout.” She leans back and returns to her nails.

  I shake my head and pick up the copy of the paper, peering at her over the top edge. “I don’t think it was a mistake.”

  She puts her feet back on the floor, and a frown line forms on her forehead. “Of course it was a mistake. Who’d write penis on purpose?”

  “You.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “I don’t know. Why are you doing this?”

  Her eyes go wide. “I’m not doing anything.”

  I squint at her. “Nope. Not buying it. You’re up to something.”

  She leans forward and lowers her voice, a sly smile creeping across her lips. “Aren’t I always?”

  “You certainly are.”

  She sits back with a triumphant smirk. “So what did you promise the old lady to make her go away?”

  “Fix and rerun her ad.”

  “Is that all?” Blaire sticks out her bottom lip.

  I shrug and tell her what I didn’t want to have to admit. “It’s okay. She wasn’t that upset. She told me she’s gotten several dates out of it. Says her social life has never been this hopping.”

  “Ha!” Blaire gives a surprised bark of laughter. “See? I’m making the world a better place one messed-up classified ad at a time.” She pulls headphones out of her top drawer and puts them on, silently dismissing me.

  I roll my eyes and go back to my desk. I’ll find out soon what she’s up to. She isn’t organized enough to keep me out of her business for long.

  ∞∞∞

  By Monday night I know something’s up with Kya. She hasn’t called me in a couple of days—not since the bizarre double date—so I drop by her apartment after work to make her talk to me.

  “Are you mad at me?” I ask her once she’s let me in and I’ve given the necessary pets and snuggles to Valkyrie.

  Usually Kya and I talk a dozen times a day. The fact that she hasn’t called me in two whole days means something’s up. Did Tarek tell her about the mop closet of lust?

  She folds her arms. “I’m not mad at you, exactly.”

  Uh oh.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you right away after the date. I got so busy.” Busy thinking that maybe Kya needed some time to process the lack of a relationship between herself and her mad crush. But I should have checked on her.

  A very small part of me had been busy thinking stupid thoughts about the mop closet. It was a pleasant, thigh-igniting kiss. An interlude that took a slight departure from reality. That was all. It was a trip countless other women have taken before me. It didn’t mean anything. It’s Tarek. By definition it didn’t mean anything.

  “Being busy is no excuse,” I tell Kya. “I should have been there for you after the fallout.” I move to hug her, but she steps back.

  “Fallout? What are you talking about?”

  “Um, you and Trina?”

  She shakes her head and gives me a funny look. “Trina and I are fine. Although I can’t say I was happy with the way you monopolized her attention. She barely had time to talk to me. I mean, I know you’re mad at Tarek for what he did to your engagement, but you didn’t have to totally take Trina over.”

  Gobsmacked is the word that comes to mind. Were Kya and I on the same double date? I swallow before answering. Tread lightly, I tell myself.

  “I didn’t mean to monopolize Trina. I’m sorry.”

  Kya waves away my apology and scoops up Valkyrie. “Oh, it’s okay. I realize you were just getting to know her. You’d just met her. I guess my jealousy took over.”

  Kya takes a seat on the couch. After clearing some books away, I sit too.

  “So how are things going with Trina?” I’m dying to know the story Kya’s telling herself.

  “Good. Good.” She nods. “I worked out with her today. Check out my biceps.” She brandishes her right arm, which shows the shadow of some early muscle definition.

  “Impressive.”

  She smiles and nods.

  “Are you going out with Trina again soon?” I try to ask without acknowledging the gnawing worry in my gut for my friend.

  She bobs her head and bites her lip. “Yes. Probably. Of course. We just haven’t scheduled anything yet.”

  I nod in the unspoken sympathy of busy lives, busy schedules. “I get it.”

  “Have you seen Brandon lately?”

  “No.”

  Kya scoots forward on the couch and Valkyrie tries to jump up next to her. Kya picks her up and snuggles her for a minute before speaking. “I’m not trying to tell you how to run your relationship, but I just think you should be careful.”

  “Careful?” Brandon should not be the man in my life—or hers—that she should be worried about.

  “You’re fresh from your breakup with Liam, which was a huge deal. You thought you’d be together forever.”

  My heart stabs itself at the sound of Liam’s name. “Thank you, yes, skipping over this part.” I twirl my finger f
or her to move on.

  “And you jump into this thing with Dog-boy. But he puts his mom and sister first—in front of you—on a Saturday night.” She raises an eyebrow meaningfully at me. “I just think you should be careful with your heart.”

  I nod. She should be giving herself this speech, not me. The only relationship she has with Trina is in her head. “I will, Kya. I will. Thanks. That’s good advice.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  On Tuesday night I decide to spend more time on my photography hobby. I go to Centennial Park and take pictures at the fountains. The trees are lush and full in the early spring. But since it’s Atlanta, it’s already hot and humid enough to feel like summer almost anywhere else. Beams of sunlight stream through the leaves, casting interesting shadow patterns on the ground. I’m thrilled with the new battery pack Tarek gave me, even if it came from him. I haven’t really spent that much time thinking about him and our closet interlude, but when I do, it feels like a tiny victory. A moment, a blip out of time, when the biggest player on the dating scene today experienced an instant of insecurity.

  After a couple of happy hours practicing, I take a break to review my shots, zooming in on them to check sharpness and focus. I’m proud of my progress. I’ve taken several that could be contenders for Giselle’s online gallery. Maybe I can finally put up Giselle’s website I’ve been pretending is broken. She has new work to exhibit.

  When I get home, I download my photos and choose a few for Facebook. I spend some time sorting and then put the best ones into folders for the portfolio I’m building of Giselle’s work. I’m so focused on what I’m doing that I jump when the doorbell rings.

  I quickly check my phone for texts in case Kya or Blaire had messaged to say they were coming over, but I don’t have any. I ignore the bell since it’s probably a salesperson until there’s an insistent pounding followed by, “Marissa!” called through the door. I peek out the peephole.

  Tarek.

  What the hell is he doing here? I resist the urge to rub my backside, so sharp are the recent memories of his being in my apartment.

  But of course that was not the last time I saw him. I resist rubbing any of my other body parts, too, and crack open the door.

  “Hey,” I say through the narrow slit.

  He raises his eyebrows, a restless energy shifting him in and out of my three-inch view. “Hey, yourself.” He glances down the hallway then back at me as I stand there not opening the door. “Can I come in?”

  I switch my weight onto one foot and stand like a flamingo, I grasp the doorknob to keep my balance. “Why?”

  He blinks at me. “What do you mean, why?”

  “I mean, define your purpose in being here. What would you do if you were to be allowed inside?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Kya asked me to bring you something.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” I throw the door wide and usher him in.

  He hands me a book and a bottle of wine. Chardonnay. My favorite.

  I hadn’t been expecting the book. I barely remember Kya threatening to lend it to me months ago. And I certainly was not expecting wine. Kya had stopped being my enabler since my convalescence and return to work.

  “What’s this for?” I hold the bottle up and wiggle it at him. “Besides drinking, that is?”

  He clears his throat. “Oh, I brought that for you.” He tries for a casual tone, but the fact I recognize that he’s trying almost makes me drop the bottle in terror.

  He’s watching for my reaction. Outside, I say, “Okay. Cool.” Inside, I say, Holy hell! Does he think he’s going to add me to the masses of women he’s slept with just because we kissed in a closet? Think again, Tarek. I know you, remember? Not like all those other women who don’t know what they’re in for when they’re kissing you.

  “You could open the wine and offer me some.” He raises his eyebrows and puts his hands in his pockets, probably waiting for me to invite him to sit down. He can stand all day as far as I’m concerned.

  “I could,” I say and stay perfectly still.

  He begins to wander around my small living room, shuffling his shoes on the carpet.

  “Ah, your new fancy camera.” He picks it up from the kitchen table and messes with it. My laptop is open, faced away from him, but if he moves an inch, he’ll see it. Did I leave Giselle’s Facebook profile up on the screen? Fear tiptoes into my belly. I think I did.

  I move closer to him. “Here, come sit down, and I’ll pour the wine.” I touch his arm to direct him back to the couch, and he gives a start. He puts the camera down, though, and crosses over to the sofa without looking at my laptop.

  “Do you need help?” he asks before sitting.

  “Nope. I’ve opened a bottle or two in my life.” I take two wine glasses from the cabinet and the corkscrew from the drawer, and then shut my laptop as I walk by.

  “Actually, you can help me open this.” Now that I’ve made the point that I’m capable of opening it, it’s fine to let him be helpful. I put the glasses on the table and hand him the bottle and opener. When I return from the kitchen with napkins, he has opened the wine and poured us each some chardonnay, which we both know is my preference and not his.

  “Cheers,” I say and clink my glass with his. He gives me a half smile, and we both sip. He studies me over the rim of his glass, and I wait for the barbed criticism, the smartass comment elaborating on one of my many deficiencies. Instead he clears his throat again, sets his already empty glass on the coffee table, and leans back against the couch cushion.

  I move to sit in the chair adjacent to him, but he stops me.

  “Why don’t you sit over here?” He pats the seat beside him. “We could watch TV.”

  He’s being so incredibly weird that I don’t know what to make of it.

  I pick up the remote from the table and sit on the other end of the couch, leaving the patted spot empty between us.

  “What do you want to wa—” I start, but am interrupted when Tarek leans over and presses his lips to mine.

  The remote hits the floor.

  I’m an explosion he has triggered. His kiss pulls me in, demanding. I meet it with demands of my own. My fury, my passion, my hate for him wrap into a tight ball of twisting, writhing, red-hot desire. His chest leans against mine, his weight presses me into the cushion, and suddenly we’re horizontal. He puts one hand to my waist and wraps the other in my hair. His tongue moves against mine, coaxing, teasing, no longer satisfied with waiting. Flames of consuming fire spread up my thighs. My stomach clenches in anticipation.

  I move my hands, which were hanging surprised and limp at my sides despite the hunger he’s awakening. I trail them around his back, absorbing the ridges of the hard planes there. I caress the warm skin of his neck, scratch my nails lightly over his head, feathering through his short hair.

  What am I doing? Gasping for breath, I break away from the kiss and put my hand to my mouth, shocked at the fire still smoldering throughout my body, refusing to cool. He sits up, looking dazed, and runs his fingers through his hair, rearranging it into spikes despite the product still trying to keep it sculpted.

  “What was that?” I scoot back against the couch cushion, already missing the pressure of his body on mine, the exhilaration of his lips kissing me, his tongue in my mouth. Even though I’m the one who pulled away first, I want to throw myself on top of him. Straddle his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. Suck on his tongue until he’s clawing my back. Anything to give vent to this heat that’s still flaming.

  He turns his head away. “Fever, I think.”

  I pull back and frown until he meets my gaze. I search his clear sea-green eyes. “You have a fever?”

  He scrubs his hands back and forth over his hair. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” He takes in a deep, shuddering breath and clasps his hands across his flat stomach. When he speaks, his voice is low as if the words are being wrenched from him against his will. “I must have some kind of brain fever. My mind keeps gettin
g stuck on you.”

  He turns his head and faces me with a haunted look. “What is this?” The anguish in his voice kicks me in the gut. I lean closer to him, inch by inch, as if approaching a wild but curious woodland creature, and put a hand on either side of his face. The rough stubble of his unshaven face prickles on my palms. He focuses on me steadily, but his eyes appear almost afraid. The vulnerability in that look is irresistible. I close the distance between us and place my lips on his.

  At first he’s statue-still, but I increase the pressure, and he bends to me with a moan, giving in to abandon, wrapping his arms around my back and pulling me onto his lap until I’m straddling him, a disturbingly large bulk hard between my legs. I wind my arms around him and press against his solid chest. His hand trembles as it moves between us to sweep my curtain of hair out of the way. He lifts up to kiss me, cupping the back of my head with his large hand and holding me there.

  I bite his plump lower lip, and he groans. He kisses me hard, his tongue wrangling mine. He levers me up and over until I’m lying flat on my back on the couch, with him poised over me, between my thighs. He looks at me and smiles, but it’s a smile I swear I’ve never seen on him before in all my years of knowing him. It’s free of sarcasm, free of judgment, free of world weariness. There is only wonder here. And heat. And need.

  He takes a loop of my hair and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger, and I grab the front of his shirt, crumpling the smooth silver silk in my hand, and pull him down to me.

  “More,” I whisper.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says, and takes my lips with his once again. The kiss is slower this time, sweeter, but his hands are on the move. His right hand finds the hem of my shirt and slides under it. I pull in a breath as he trails his fingers against my naked belly. He strokes the edge of my bra for a second before he flips the underwire up and covers my breast with his hand. I moan. He kneads the sensitive flesh, and I buck my hips against him. A low groan escapes his throat, the hum of it vibrating against my lips. He tries to take off my shirt, but it gets bunched up against the couch and I have to help him.