Increasingly exposed

The first pitch sailed wide, but Emily still flinched, instinctively crossing her arms over the satin shirt that suddenly felt paper-thin. The second throw hit the target's edge, making the platform wobble—and that's when she realized the snaps on her blouse were popping open one by one with each jolt. She squeaked, fumbling to refasten them, but the third ball connected dead center with a metallic *clang*. The seat dropped, the crowd roared, and Emily hit the water with her shirt flaring open like a rodeo flag.

She surfaced gasping, clutching the ruined blouse together with one hand while the other batted away floating strands of hair. Through the chaos, she caught Kevin's expression—a frozen mix of horror and something far more complicated—before he vaulted over the tank's edge to block the crowd's view with his body. "Change of plans," he announced loudly, tossing her a towel while keeping his back firmly to the spectators. "Next outfit's... uh..." His eyes darted to the tent. "The mermaid tail!"

Emily gaped at him, water dripping off her nose. "The *what*?"

"Trust me," Kevin muttered through a **** smile, steering her toward the tent with a hand hovering near—but not touching—her bare shoulder. Inside, he yanked the curtain shut and pressed a crumpled wad of bills into her palm. "Two hundred forty bucks so far. Just... put on the damn tail."

The mermaid tail was worse than she'd imagined—stretchy iridescent fabric that suctioned onto her legs like plastic wrap, forcing her to wiggle toward the tank like some kind of beached sea creature. The crowd's laughter turned to awed silence when she emerged, the scales catching the sunlight in hypnotic flashes. Someone's toddler burst into tears, convinced she was real.

The mermaid tail was worse than she'd imagined—stretchy iridescent fabric that suctioned onto her legs like plastic wrap, forcing her to wiggle toward the tank like some kind of beached sea creature. The crowd's laughter turned to awed silence when she emerged, the scales catching the sunlight in hypnotic flashes.

Emily's cheeks burned hotter than the Texas sun as she wobbled toward the dunk tank in the shimmering mermaid tail, her legs fused together by the ridiculously tight fabric. The crowd's murmurs crescendoed into a collective gasp when she attempted to climb the ladder—a maneuver that required Kevin to grip her waist and *lift* while she flopped like a fish, the tail's sequins flashing with every undignified wriggle. Someone wolf-whistled. A young man filmed it on his phone. And Emily, breathless and flushed, realized with a jolt that part of her *liked* the attention.

The first pitch missed entirely, but the second grazed the target's edge—enough to make the platform shudder violently. Emily yelped as the motion sent the mermaid tail's "fin" flipping up, revealing a scandalous flash of thigh where the fabric had ridden up. The crowd whooped. Kevin choked on his bottled water. And the third throw? Dead center. The *clang* of the target was drowned out by Emily's shriek as she plunged into the water, the tail instantly becoming a lead weight dragging her downward. She surfaced spluttering, the tail now completely translucent against her skin.

Kevin hauled her out with both hands under her arms, his wedding band cold against her ribs. "Next outfit's the sundress," he rasped, averting his eyes from the way the tail suctioned to her hips. "The *regular* one."

But the woman in the Stetson had other ideas. "I'll pay *three* hundred for the Greek statue dress," she announced, slapping cash into the donation jar. The crowd erupted. Kevin opened his mouth—to protest, maybe—but Emily surprised them both by nodding.

The gauzy sundress turned out to be more concept than clothing. Emily held it up behind the curtain, watching sunlight filter straight through the nearly invisible fabric. Her breath hitched. Something warm and unfamiliar coiled low in her stomach as she imagined stepping out there, practically bare under the thinnest excuse for modesty. The cheers outside grew louder when she hesitated too long.

"Need help?" Kevin's voice came through the canvas, strained.

"No!" she squeaked, then bit her lip. This was insane. This was *thrilling*. The dress slithered over her shoulders like cobwebs, the hem brushing mid-thigh. She inhaled sharply—the neckline plunged lower than she'd realized.

The crowd's noise died to a hush when she stepped out. Even the Ferris wheel seemed to pause. Emily's skin prickled under dozens of stares, her nipples pebbling visibly through the gauze. Kevin's clipboard hit the ground with a clatter.

"Y'all are *animals*," he growled, snatching the donation jar and shoving it at a gaping man. "Next round starts at five hundred. *Each*."

Emily's breath hitched as she climbed back onto the platform in the gauzy sundress, acutely aware of how the fabric clung to every damp curve. The afternoon sun backlit her silhouette, turning the dress practically transparent. A low whistle cut through the murmuring crowd—mostly men now, their baseball caps pulled low but their eyes tracking her every movement. She swallowed hard, twisting the hem between her fingers until Kevin cleared his throat and nudged the donation jar pointedly toward a group of construction workers loitering near the cotton candy stand.

"Five hundred a throw," Kevin announced, but his voice cracked halfway through. He adjusted his stance, subtly shifting to block the view of a particularly leering older man who'd edged too close to the tank. "Cash upfront."

The first pitch came from a beefy guy in a Cowboys jersey, his biceps straining as he wound up. Emily flinched before the ball even left his hand, the dress fluttering against her thighs with the motion. The ball missed by inches, but the collective groan from the crowd wasn't about the failed throw—it was about how she'd instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, making the already sheer fabric stretch taut.

"Y'all playin' baseball or peepshow?" Maggie's voice cut through the noise like a firecracker. She materialized at the tank's edge, arms laden with funnel cakes that she dumped unceremoniously onto Kevin's clipboard. "Move," she ordered, shoving him aside with her hip. "Emily, honey, you okay?"

Emily nodded mutely, but her knuckles were white where they gripped the platform's edge. The second throw—from a college kid reeking of beer—sent the target ringing. She plunged into the water with a yelp, the dress billowing around her like a jellyfish's ghost. When she surfaced, gasping, the wet fabric left exactly nothing to the imagination.