Kittenfish: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Brenda Lowder

  “A little help? Please?” She didn’t know the two hipster guys eyeing her over the tops of their Moscow Mule copper cups but judging by their placid lack of helpfulness they had to be friends of Cam’s ex-girlfriend, Honey. Or did they think she was a stowaway?

  Emma grunted and made a few more flapping-seal attempts to get into the boat before the nearest man relented. He rolled his eyes, set down his mug, and ambled over to yank her arms past the short wall. The rest of her followed with a soggy slap onto the deck.

  “Thanks!” She waved at the retreating hipsters, who were presumably escaping before they could be further associated with her waterlogged self.

  Emma stood and gathered her skirt. She wrung out as much water as she could until a sudden cold breeze on the back of her thighs made her drop her hem to investigate.

  Yup, at some point during her departure hijinks she’d managed to enlarge the slit up the back of her dress to maybe two inches from being obscene. Fortunately, her small purse was still wrapped around her arm. Although damp, her bag contained a single safety pin that could save her backside from total indecent exposure.

  The champagne-colored satin brocade was an unfortunate choice to begin with, but it was the only formal-ish gown she owned, a hand-me-down from her smaller-breasted cousin who was a career bridesmaid. Why Cam had required formal attire at the last minute for his thirtieth birthday party was a mystery. And a colossal inconvenience.

  Cam’s Uncle Dale sauntered around the corner and did a double take when he caught sight of her. His eyes hovered first on her chest, then her underwear that, when Emma looked down, she saw was completely visible through the wet fabric. He turned around, whistling, and went back the way he’d come, mercifully sparing her any conversation.

  Note to self: no more hot pink panties under light beige dresses.

  She scanned the area and, when she was sure no one was looking, whipped her panties off and stuck them in the nearest trash can. So much for hoping Cam would see her underwear tonight.

  Emma hauled the bust of the sleeveless dress up, realizing she was going to be doing that all night if she didn’t want the girls popping out of the top. Unfortunately, the maneuver was counterproductive to keeping it down in the back.

  An executive decision needed to be made. Was she going to use her emergency safety pin to cinch the V closed and keep the top from falling down or to stop the slit in the back from ripping up?

  Holding her dress together with one hand low in back and the other high in front, she took mincing, squishing steps toward the restroom. Her soaked skirt clinging to her legs, she swayed to the rhythm of the music, just now registering the live band performing on the dais.

  Emma smiled. They were playing one of her favorite songs, “Bring Me to Life” by Evanescence, a song she’d often heard in college when she and Cam were studying alone together in her room. Back when she was too scared to do anything about her wild attraction to him. Not like now. Not like last night.

  She shivered. Goosebumps stood up on her arms, her body energized with new possibilities.

  “Emma!”

  Emma’s heart squeezed in her chest at the sound of his voice. Cam. She spun around, already beaming at him.

  His eyebrows drew together a fraction as he took in the state of her dress, but he hesitated only a second before pulling her in for a bear hug.

  “Here’s my friend!” He rocked them back and forth, lifting her off her feet a few inches.

  Finally and all too soon, he released her.

  “You’re late,” he accused with a mock-stern expression. “You’re never late! It’s not like my Emma at all.”

  My Emma. Her pulse thrilled.

  “Why are you late?” He gave her condition a second glance. “What happened to you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine.” She waved away his concern even as she reveled in it. “I just overslept. You know. Last night.” She beamed again, but perhaps she put too much emphasis on the subtext of last night because Cam’s brow clouded over. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “Hey, happy birthday, man.” One of Cam’s buddies slugged his shoulder as he walked by. Cam laughed and returned the punch, leaving his friend rubbing his arm.

  After three more feints of shadow boxing, the man moved on, and Cam turned his grin back on Emma where she watched it retreat from his face.

  “Listen, Em—” he started.

  “Cameron, I need you,” Cam’s mother, Stephanie, interrupted him.

  Cam blew out a breath and pivoted toward his mother.

  “Yes?” Speaking to his mother was the only time Cam ever seemed to be uncertain. Usually he had a confidence that expanded beyond the limits of his physical body—you could feel it anywhere, the moment he arrived. He was more alive than most people. He filled a room just by stepping into it.

  Unless he was speaking to his mother. At these times Emma could see the boy he’d been and could imagine the time when he was not this strong, vibrant, ebullient man she’d always known him to be. It warmed her to think of him vulnerable like that, to see him any other way than the fully realized Greek god that stood before her, causing her heart to spin circles in her chest.

  “I need you to speak to the band and have them play something your father’s friends recognize. Before there’s a revolt.” Now that she’d delivered her edict, she spared Emma a glance.

  “Hello, Emma.” Her eyes went wide at Emma’s dress, but she was polite enough not to comment.

  “Hi, Stephanie.” Emma smiled.

  “Now, Cam,” Stephanie said when Cam didn’t move.

  With a quick, regretful glance at Emma, Cam left to follow his mother’s orders. Emma clasped her hands in front of her. “The party seems to be going well.”

  Stephanie’s lips pressed together in a straight line as she regarded Emma. “Yes. Thank you.” She glanced over Emma’s shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Emma watched Stephanie hurry off and took a deep breath. Her heart tripped with excitement at the thought of the evening that stretched in front of her, full of blossoming romance. If only she were dressed for it. She glanced down and decided to see what she could do about her dress.

  She didn’t remember exactly where the bathroom was but sidestepped the party and headed right—starboard?—toward her best guess. The size of Cam’s parents’ boat was staggering. She marveled at the level of wealth necessary to own a super yacht that boasted five bedrooms with en suite bathrooms, a theater room, a rooftop observatory, and a party deck with public restrooms and a fully staffed bar.

  Emma’s upbringing had been regrettably boat-free. Her father was an English professor at a small local college, and her mother was a stay-at-home retired beauty queen which, although much referenced by her mother, was not, in fact, a lucrative or even paid position.

  She reached for the door to the ladies’ room, and her hand pulsed with the echoing beat of the thumping bass coming from the dance floor. The rhythm made her wish she were on the dance floor. Wrapped in Cam’s arms, whatever the song. She’d dance to Kanye if she had to.

  Once inside the restroom, even louder sounds assailed her.

  “I have to go home!” A young teenage girl wailed to the kneeling woman whose purse had been dumped out on the floor.

  The door swung shut behind Emma, hitting her on her almost-exposed derriere, as she interrupted a full-scale mother-daughter scene that gave her flashbacks to her own teenager-hood.

  “I’m sorry, Stella,” the mother’s voice was quiet, but her frustration sounded nanoseconds from erupting. “Here, just hold your hands like this and no one will notice.” She placed her daughter’s hands to strategically cover the tear. The teen had to hunch over to do it, but her mom pushed her hair back from her sweaty face and looked at her hopefully.

  “No one will notice? I’m practically naked!” Stella screamed that last part and Emma winced. The teen lifted her hands to reveal a growing rip down the side of her dress not unlike the one venting Emm
a’s backside.

  Stella’s mother glanced apologetically at Emma.

  “Casualty of boarding?” Emma turned to indicate her own unwanted slit. “The boat bit me, too.”

  Stella wiped her eyes and stopped carrying on long enough to stare at Emma’s gown. “Yeah, except yours looks way worse.”

  “Stella!” Her mother shot Emma another apologetic look.

  “No, it’s okay.” Emma shrugged. She turned to the younger girl. “You’re right. It is worse. Much worse. Yours isn’t bad at all. You should go back out there and enjoy yourself.”

  Stella burst into renewed tears. “I can’t do that! Everyone will see! My life is over!” She threw herself onto the upholstered chair by the mirror and sobbed into the seat cushion.

  Emma shook her head and crossed to one of the floor-length mirrors to assess the damage to her own gown. She closed her eyes before looking. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. She squinted her eyes open one at a time and, cringing, peered at herself in the mirror.

  Oh, yeah. It was exactly that bad.

  Her long brown hair, which she’d gathered into an artfully messy bun, had fallen from artful and succumbed to just messy. She took it down and let her hair swing free.

  The back of her dress was very close to displaying the ass in assets, and the too-tight top looked like it wouldn’t restrain its prisoners much longer. She was less than an inch from a double nip slip.

  Emma pulled her safety pin from her sodden beaded evening bag.

  What to save? Her ass or her boobs?

  “I’m gonna die!” Stella’s cries escalated. Emma turned to see the girl’s mother attempting to drag her to the door.

  “Nobody dies of embarrassment,” her mom said in a strangled tone.

  “No one’s ever been this embarrassed before!” Stella stuck her arms out, clawing at the hallway. Her mother gained an inch in the Bravo-show-worthy tug-of-war toward the exit.

  “Umm,” Emma started.

  Mother and daughter paused their grappling to look at her.

  “I have a safety pin you can have.” She held it out to them.

  Stella sprang at her, snatching it from her open hand in a blur.

  “Thanks!” She pulled her skirt around, flipped it up, folded the offending tear over, and stabbed it through with the large pin.

  Stella’s mom knelt by her daughter and helped to hold up the skirt. “Yes, thank you,” she seconded.

  “No problem.” Emma gave the top of her bodice a final tug, smoothed her skirt over her bottom, and marched through the door. She didn’t need the safety pin. Cam kissed her last night. She was still going to win.

  Emma tilted her chin and entered the arena.

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  About the Author

  Brenda Lowder is an award-winning author of lighthearted women's fiction and romantic comedy novels. She lives in Atlanta and loves international travel, fine dining, and air conditioning. She's a big fan of fiction in all its forms--books, films, television, and the lies we tell ourselves. Her brilliant and smoking-hot husband and two princess-scientist daughters love her enough to insist she's still twenty-nine.

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