Sink or Swim: A Mirandy Mermaid Tale

Chapter 1

NOTES: Paris never happened, and Nate and Stephen are history. Otherwise it's the normal universe. Except for the mermaid thing. That's different. Oh, and I invented a small island off the coast of New York. 

The magic in this story (water = mermaid) was inspired by the movie Splash (1984) and the Australian show H2O Just Add Water.

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In Andy's defense, it happened fast. And the timing—well, that wasn't her fault.

Miranda was hosting Solé Archer, some famous designer with a tiny, upturned nose and an absurdly large entourage of assistants with no clear purpose. When Miranda had these meetings in her office, Andrea was reduced to serving ridiculous, low-calorie finger food and refilling water glasses.

As always, she was painstakingly careful with the water. Her awareness of every ounce of water in her vicinity was a constant part of her life, a necessity if she had a prayer of keeping her secret. No matter where she was, or what she was doing, some part of her brain was preoccupied with sinks, puddles, and even condensation—noting the locations and strategizing to avoid contact.

So when Miranda inclined her head with a pointed flick of her brow, indicating that Andy should refresh the water glasses, she lifted the pitcher with practiced care, touched only the handle, and gently poured a slow trickle into Solé's half-empty tumbler.

Solé didn't acknowledge Andy; she kept her pale green eyes trained on Miranda. "I'm hosting a gathering next Saturday, on one of my favorite yachts. Just a few close friends. You should come."

"I'd be delighted. Andrea, clear my schedule."

Andy nodded, moving around the table to a woman in a blue wig and chunky glasses who sat with a miniature laptop, not taking notes. Her water glass was untouched, but Andrea added a few drops for appearances before moving on to the next assistant, a blonde in a checked minidress who had done nothing but gawk at Miranda for an hour.

Solé leaned forward. "This won't be one of those dull parties in the harbor. This particular vessel runs fast and smooth, and we're going to sail all the way to my property in East Hampton, for an evening event at my home. If you're up for it, of course."

"I am." Miranda didn't hesitate. Her ultimate goal was an exclusive for Runway, and she'd probably fly to the moon to get it.

Good thing I'm not going. It was one thing to stay dry in a New York office building, but a yacht speeding through the ocean, countless miles from the shore? Yikes.

At that exact moment, as Andy tilted the pitcher toward the next glass, Miranda said, "Andrea, you will accompany me."

A jolt of panic caused her hand to wobble, and she watched in slow motion as water spilled onto her forearm and her blouse. Oh fuck. There was no towel in sight, and with the wet spot on her blouse, it didn't matter. She had to get out of there, and she only had a few seconds.

"Excuse me!" She set the pitcher on the table with a graceless thunk, and then she fled—out the door, past a mystified Emily, and into the hallway where she scanned for an escape.

The restroom had multiple stalls—there was no way she could hide there. So she ran for the stairwell, flung open the door and slammed it shut behind her. Then she kicked off her shoes and tugged her pants and panties down, just barely getting them off before her legs transformed into a massive fish tail.

Her ass hit the cement floor, followed by the tail, with a slap that echoed throughout the stairwell. The tail stretched out before her on the small landing, green scales tapering to the spot where her ankles normally were, and then fanning out into a wide, forked, fin tail with crimped edges.