Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER ONE

Chase

“Listen up!” I shout through my megaphone. “This shot happens before lunch, or say goodbye to your holiday plans. And since Hollywood's class clown can't stay focused for more than thirty seconds—” I lock eyes with Ethan, who has the audacity to wink at me, “—you know exactly who to blame.”

The crew scatters like cockroaches, actors reset, and in seconds, the soundstage is a picture-perfect cozy Irish pub again. Green explodes everywhere, like the Hulk sneezed on Saint Patrick’s Day. Streamers, shamrocks, and pots of gold—it’s precisely what I envisioned when I wrote the script.

My assistant Taylor materializes at my side, blondie on a mission. Eyes like lasers. Clipboard of doom in hand and looking like she could organize chaos itself.

“Chase, it’s only twenty minutes until the mandatory lunch break. We can’t afford another penalty and—”

“I know. See this pulsating vein in my forehead? It’s doing a fabulous job reminding me just how late we’re running.”

Taylor’s eyes soften. “If you keep scowling like that, you’ll have wrinkles before you’re thirty-three.”

I feel my shoulders relax slightly. “Shit. Point taken. I’ll try to relax. You’re my lifesaver, Taylor. Have I told you today what a total badass you are?”

She grins. “Someone’s gotta keep the directing queen sane in this circus.”

“Not even I can control our resident pretty-boy star,” I grumble, feeling my stress levels skyrocket at the mere thought of him.

My gaze darts across the set, searching for my leading man. And there he is—not at his mark, not running lines, instead he’s turning the craft services table into his personal fan club. Ethan Barrett, six feet of pure frustration, surrounded by a swarm of adoring female PAs. They’re hanging on his every word, laughing at his jokes, and practically melting every time he flashes that annoyingly cocky grin.

“Ethan! For the love of fucking leprechauns, GET READY for this take!”

“I’ve been ready, Chase. If you want to blame me, be my guest. But we both know you love riding my ass.”

“If you could stay focused, maybe I wouldn’t have to ride you so hard.”

Shit. That came out wrong.

His grin widens. “You want to take me for a ride? Just say the word. I promise you won’t regret it.”

I walked right into that one.

“Gah! GET ON SET!”

Ethan Barrett, leading man? Hardly. More like leading man-child , wrapped up in an infuriatingly irresistible package. His wavy, light-brown hair is expertly styled. He has mesmerizing blue eyes and endless muscles that are perfectly sculpted to drive the opposite sex crazy. Every woman he meets falls under his spell, each wondering if she could be the one to tame his wild, exasperating heart. I cast him for precisely that reason, and yeah… he knows it.

His smile is smug—and his ego? Well, that’s a package deal. His so-called charm might fool his legions of devoted fans, but not me. Ethan Barrett is an agent of chaos. He cares more about goofing off on set and posting selfies on social media than he does about memorizing his damn lines.

The Hollywood rumor mill has it right: We’re not BFFs. In fact, every film we work on only intensifies our mutual dislike for each other.

He’s the reason I’m consuming Tums like daily vitamins.

When I’m writing a script, I visualize it. I picture exactly where people stand, what they should say, and how everything will flow to make the audience laugh, cry, and swoon. But Ethan and his antics challenge that vision every freaking day.

He’s like a Ken doll come to life that I wish would turn back into plastic.

Why, oh why am I stuck with him? Oh yeah, because unfortunately, our first Christmas movie together was a massive hit—so much so that the studio suits demanded he star in every film I’ve written since. Talk about your holiday curse.

I scrutinize the monitor, evaluating the scene. Ethan stands behind the bar, all broad shoulders, powerful jaw, and cocky grin. He looks undeniably hot in his red plaid flannel as he holds that bottle of tequila, but something’s not quite right.

“Ethan, roll back your sleeves,” I call out.

He lazily pushes the fabric up his forearms, revealing tanned skin and a hint of a tattoo. “How’s that, Miss Perfectionist? Like what you see?”

I stride over, frustration bubbling up. “Pretty half-ass, even for you. Just… let me do it.”

I clutch his muscular arm, fantasizing about strangling him with his shirt. Methodically I fold back the sleeve in a neat, even roll. He could never.

Ethan watches me with an insufferable smirk, his breath tickling my ear as he angles toward me. “You know, Chase, if you wanna grope me, you can just ask.”

I yank on the fabric, harder than necessary. Oopsie. He can spare a few arm hairs.

“Ow! Are you trying to manscape me against my will?”

I step back, pause, and lean forward to undo the top two buttons of his shirt. Might as well go all in on this “sexy bartender” thing.

“Better slow down,” Ethan purrs. “If you keep undressing me, the crew might get the wrong idea.”

“Your look is ‘approachable bartender,’ not Magic Mike wannabe. Try to remember that.”

Ethan’s eyes meet mine, and for a split second, his smirk falters. “Chase, hold up. I’ve been running lines, and I think there’s a way we can enhance this scene—”

Wait, what? Is Ethan “Eye Candy” Barrett actually trying to contribute?

But then his signature grin snaps back into place. “Let’s make it more me-centric. Really showcase my natural charisma. We gotta give the people what they want.”

“Just. Stick. To. The. Script.”

“Aw, come on.” He winks. “Admit it. You’re scared the audience will be too busy drooling over me to notice your overwritten dialogue and artsy-fartsy camera angles.”

“Wake up, pretty boy,” I say, jabbing a finger at his chest. “My writing is what makes you seem interesting. Say the lines as written, or I swear I’ll write your character as a dickless, mute monk.”

Grr. How can I possibly have time for a boyfriend when this aggravating man demands all my attention? He's why my love life is on permanent hiatus.

No time to waste. I pivot on my heel and hurry to the video monitor. “Back to one, everybody!”

Staring at the screen, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. Yikes. Did I even brush my hair this morning? Hmm, honestly, I don’t remember. I run my fingers through my long brown locks, pulling them up into an artfully messy ponytail for the umpteenth time—I call it Bedhead Chic.

Being a director is like herding cats, except these cats have egos the size of Texas. I’m running on three hours of sleep, six mugs of herbal tea, and half a granola bar. The bags under my big brown eyes are demanding an intervention from some miracle-cure concealer.

Whatever. I’m not here to win a beauty pageant. I’m here to make a goddamn movie!

And you know what? I fucking love it. Is it a total shitshow? You bet. Calling it stressful is an understatement—it’s more like living in a perpetual state of “Oh fuck, now what?”

People call me the Ice Queen of holiday movies, but they have no clue. This job is brutal. Most days, I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water. But being tough as nails is what it takes to create something special in this ruthless industry.

Making stories that bring people joy—that’s what drags my ass out of bed at insane hours and keeps me grinding day after day. So if dealing with difficult actors and navigating studio politics is what it takes to deliver more hope and laughter, I’m all in. I’ll put up with the headaches, the stress, and yes, even actors with the attention span of a goldfish (ahem, Ethan) . Ice Queen? Fine by me. Let them try to do my job for a day.

“Action!” I bellow.

The bar door swings open, and in sashays our leading lady, a blonde too gorgeous for words. Her face falls as she slowly slides onto a barstool—a perfect portrait of melancholy—just as we rehearsed.

Great entrance, Megan. Now don’t fuck this up, Ethan.

He leans on the bar, flashing his movie-star smile that makes ovaries explode across America. “Looks like you’re having a rough day. I bet I can lift your spirits—”

This is the one. The magic, the chemistry, it’s all working. I mouth the words as Ethan continues.

“How about one lucky leprechaun, a lemon-laced libation that’ll have you licking your lips and longing for more?”

Wait, what? That’s not in the script. Before I can yell cut, Ethan starts flinging bottles like he’s a goddamn stunt clown juggling flaming chainsaws. One bottle slips and—

CRASH!

“Cut! What the hell was that dumbassery?”

Ethan stares at me like I’m crazy, his puppy dog eyes wide with faux innocence. “Come on, Chase. It’s a Saint Patrick’s Day movie. A little bottle juggling adds some festive flair.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose so hard I’m sure I’m leaving permanent marks. “The script doesn’t call for ‘festive flair,’ you walking Calvin Klein ad,” I growl. “This scene is about a heartfelt connection between the bartender and his old high school girlfriend. Maybe between your protein smoothie and your latest Instagram thirst trap, you forgot. It’s this thing called acting.”

“A charismatic mixologist like me would impress his girl with tricks,” Ethan argues.

“You know what I find impressive about you? How quickly you derail a scene.”

“My job is to embrace the character, not put the audience to sleep with another clichéd ‘bartender acting as a therapist’ scenario.”

I feel an aneurysm forming. I start counting to ten in my head, but I only make it to six and a half before I imagine all the ways I could “accidentally” injure Ethan without getting sued.

“Look here, Biceps for Brains . That ‘cliché’ scene establishes their relationship. Now do your job. Stand there and look pretty.”

“If you say so.” Ethan shrugs, a little nonchalance lightly sprinkled in with disrespect. “But I still say some improv would spice it up.” He turns to the crew. “Am I right?”

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Crew members nod enthusiastically. Traitors. Sorry if I’m not all cartwheels and fun, but someone has to wear the fucking mom jeans and make sure shit happens.

“More acting, less thinking, Ethan,” I say, my jaw clenched so tight I could spit out tooth dust. “You’re hired to tell the story as written.”

“All right, all right.” He holds up his hands. “One boring, by-the-book barkeep coming right up.”

“From the top,” I shout, my voice a blend of I’m so done and I might commit murder today . “And… action!”

Our leading lady enters the bar again, nailing her melancholy demeanor. Ethan opens his mouth… and out comes the worst Irish accent I’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing.

“Welcome, lassie, to thee Emerald Pub!” he bellows, sounding like a drunk leprechaun with a head cold. “Ever tried a green ale? It’s so good, it’ll make ye think you’ve found a pot of gold!”

He sticks out his tongue, and it’s a shocking shade of green. The crew bursts out laughing.

“If ye think the beer’s good, wait till ye see my leprechaun dance!” He launches into a complete mockery of an Irish jig. It’s like he’s trying to put out a fire in his pants while being electrocuted.

“Cut!” I say for the millionth time.

My assistant Taylor quickly approaches. “The executives want to see you in their office… now.”

I groan, rubbing my temples. Great. More stress on top of my already stressful day. I yell into my megaphone. “That’s lunch, everyone! Be back on set in forty-five minutes sharp.”

As I storm off, Ethan’s laughter echoes behind me—a personal soundtrack to my slow descent into madness.

***

I strut down the festive hallway of the studio offices, which are engulfed in garlands and fairy lights—Santa’s little helpers have been hard at work. Since I’ve been filming a Saint Patrick’s Day movie on the daily, it’s easy to forget Christmas is lurking around the corner like a creepy elf on a shelf.

For the last three and a half years, I’ve been directing movies for the Cherish Channel—a dream job that still excites me when I’m not drowning in drama. As a kid, these love stories were my obsession. Heartwarming tales of romance and finding yourself? Gimme, gimme, gimme! Especially the Christmas ones. They were my comfort food, my escape from reality.

I’ve never told a soul, but those movies were my lifeline during the holidays. Not all of us had an idyllic Christmas with matching pajamas and Pinterest-worthy gingerbread houses.

Some of us had a dad who drank too much and disappointment became the theme of our family life. But the Cherish Channel was always there, an around-the-clock escape from my unhappy childhood.

Now I’m the one in charge. The only person who can let me down is me. I have no interest in fairy-tale love myself, but I’m happy to create that dream for others. I’ve learned that make-believe is less painful than reality. You can’t get your heart broken when it’s all pretend.

I pass by the poster for my first film, Jingle Jokes they’re worried about our stalled-out subscriber accounts. Your last two movies did not bring in new fans. We committed, which means you committed, to deliver a million new paid subscribers by Christmas Eve.”

ONE MILLION?! I hide my whatever-the-opposite-of-an-O face is.

“I understand attracting new viewers, but let’s be real. My movies have made you guys so much money.”

“And the shareholders appreciate it,” Wiley says, with Riley adding, “Which is why you’re still employed.”

How is this my problem? Where's the marketing goon squad and their social media interns? So now I’m supposed to write, direct, and go door-to-door selling my movies? What’s next—dress up as Mrs. Claus and hand out flyers at the mall?

I swallow the negativity, absorbing it deep in my gut, and ask, “What kind of promotional activities?”

“You get to direct a marketing campaign,” Wiley retorts.

I wince at his ignorant use of the word direct .

“You’ll need to keep it festive,” Riley chimes in. “Your stars should participate in interviews, social media campaigns, the works.”

Despite what their decades-old business attire suggests, times have changed. There are so many entertainment options in the world now. Gaming. Social Media. Groups of Red Hat ladies choosing cards over TV.

The point is—no one gets huge numbers anymore. Those two would have a better chance of bringing color back to their faded 90s blazers. People prefer swiping on Tinder and watching cat videos to gathering in masses and supporting the nuanced art of holiday romance.

I sigh. “How am I supposed to do that? The lead actress for that movie is pregnant. We were already playing ‘Hide the Baby Bump’ during filming, and now I hear she’s on bed rest until January.”

“That’s not a problem. You’ll do the interviews, Ms. Pemberton. We booked one tomorrow with Rise and Glow LA . You and Ethan need to be there at four a.m.”

Forget coal. Santa just took a massive dump in my stocking.

Then Riley drops an ultimatum of epic proportions. “You either make Fa La La Love the biggest hit we’ve ever had, or you’re out. Nothing personal. Just business.”

Wiley stops frowning for a second; the closest he gets to holiday cheer. “If you manage to pull in a million paid subscribers before Christmas, we will sign you on to direct ten more films.”

Ten?! Holy shit. My brain glitches, then reboots at supersonic speed.

This is it.

The fucking jackpot.

The career-defining moment I’ve been busting my ass for, all wrapped up with a big, shiny bow.

Ten films means job security in an industry where ‘stable employment’ is about as rare as a unicorn in the North Pole. I could finally tell my creepy landlord to shove it and buy that dream house on Zillow. The one with space for a home office, where I can write without hearing my neighbors anger banging all night.

My mind is already buzzing with storylines. A holiday sweater designer who gets roasted online by a snarky reviewer. But plot twist—the troll is actually her secret admirer! Or the Christmas-obsessed podcaster who falls head over heels for the Scrooge-like guest who thinks the holidays are just a capitalist plot to sell more crap to children?

After all, who doesn’t love a good dose of holiday cynicism with their romance?

“I promise I’ll do everything in my power to ensure this promotion is a smashing success.”

Then, channeling my inner negotiator (and a touch of my inner Mafia boss) , I add, “But I have one condition: If I hit that subscriber goal, I want final casting approval on all future projects, lead actors included.”

Wiley and Riley exchange a look. “Agreed.”

Holy shit! No more being forced to work with egotistical pretty boys who can’t remember their fucking lines. I can handpick actors who actually respect the art of holiday movie-making. Imagine that!

For Christmas this year, I’m getting everything I want. Hello, big directing career, and goodbye, Ethan Barrett.