Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER THREE

Chase

“Human! I want to talk to a freaking human!” I screech into my phone, teetering under a mountain of Ethan’s fan gifts. Plushies and glittery packages threaten to bury me alive. There’s a stuffed reindeer making out with my left ear, approximately 372 helium balloons plotting my airborne escape, and is… that gift box ticking?

A robotic voice chirps back, “You are number seven. Please stay on the line to talk with the next representative.”

Cue the hold music from hell. The first two lines of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” start playing. And then they repeat. And repeat. Great. Now I’m being aurally assaulted by the world’s laziest Christmas carol.

I groan, staggering toward my car. Not only was that interview a complete dumpster fire, but now I’m stuck playing Santa’s little helper to all things Ethan. Fan-fucking-tastic.

The music loops again, mocking me. “We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas—”

“I wish you’d answer my damn call!” I snarl at the phone.

“We are currently experiencing a high call volume for the holiday season,” the robotic voice informs me cheerfully, “but you are next in line.”

Yeah, next in line for a straitjacket, maybe.

What the actual reindeer poop was I thinking? Declaring myself Ethan’s girlfriend to the entire universe? I had a game plan, damn it! Promote the movie and gain subscribers. Logical. Simple. Obvious.

But no, it turned into The Ethan Show.

Ethan’s smile.

Ethan’s hair.

Ethan’s ability to impregnate a virgin with only a wink.

He lapped it up like a dog with a bowl of eggnog, while my beloved movie got shoved aside quicker than a bad Tinder date. That’s when it hit me: Give the people what they want.

I figured I could redirect their Ethan obsession straight to the movie. In theory, it was genius. More movie hype equals more new subscribers. In reality, I signed myself up for the Hollywood gossip circus. I’m going to get more intrusive questions than a contestant on Jeopardy .

Unlike Mr. ‘I’d Stream In My Shower If You’d Let Me’ Barrett, I prefer my life on the down-low. I don’t want the world to learn about me, my love life (or lack thereof) , or my childhood. I’m a behind-the-camera gal. I don’t post personal moments because—newsflash—they’re PERSONAL!

I want this ten-movie deal so freaking bad. If I had more time, I could’ve cast someone else as Ethan’s girlfriend. Grr. Stupid Wiley and Riley, ambushing me like that.

No, I can spin this. I can make this work. I’ll write the story the fans want—a real-life romance (that is secretly an elaborate PR stunt) . Sure, Ethan has a revolving door of supermodels, Hollywood starlets, and occasionally, influencers who can’t spell their own names. But they’ll believe we’re a couple. Right?

Fuck, who am I kidding?

Okay, Chase. Breathe. You can pull off being Ethan’s girlfriend. It’s just acting. And you’re… well, you’re adjacent to actors all the time. How hard can it be?

THWAP!

What the—? Something just hit me in the face. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Are those…? Gross! Nothing says “I love Christmas” like crotchless panties.

I spot Ethan in the parking lot, holding court with his adoring public. His dazzling grin has them hanging on his every word, reminding me of our polar opposite roles, both on and now off set. He gets the praise, and I get the fucking headaches.

As I watch the women fawning over him, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers: What if someone looked at me that way? Not for what I can do, but for who I am... Goddammit. I shut that thought down hard. I’ve got a job to do, and it doesn’t involve dreaming about being noticed or... whatever.

As “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” continues to blast in my ear, I create my own version.

“I wish you a hairy ass fart. I wish you weren’t on my shit list,” I sarcastically sing. “I’m gonna throw a shit fit if you don’t pick up my call.”

The robotic voice chimes in again, “We are currently experiencing a high call volume for the holiday season, but you are very important to us.” Aaannd… the hold music drones on.

Another pair of lacy red underwear slips out from the pile and onto the parking lot. Oh, hell no. For a moment, I’m tempted to leave it there, but I need these fans’ support now more than ever if I want to keep my job. I give the panties a swift kick towards the car. God only knows what Ethan does with stuff like this. Let’s keep it that way.

I finally reach my trusty white Toyota Camry hybrid—my mobile office and now current storage unit for Ethan’s fandom treasures. I open the back door and load in the gifts.

The balloons have other ideas. They’re refusing to cooperate, bobbing and weaving as I try to shove them into the back seat. The tinny Christmas music is stuck on repeat, and every “we wish you” is making my blood pressure skyrocket.

I glance down at the lacy underwear on the ground. It mocks me with its presence. Using the corner of a Christmas card envelope—because there’s no way in hell I’m touching that STD specimen directly—I gingerly pick it up. A photo slips out, and on reflex, I catch it.

My brain short-circuits like a cheap toaster. It’s a nude picture of a fan with flaming red hair, who has strategically placed Christmas cookies barely covering her… holiday assets. The message scrawled across the bottom makes me gag: Ethan, all I want for Christmas is your candy cane inside my fuzzy wreath.

“Holy shit,” I blurt out, right as a chirpy male voice answers on the phone.

“And a very merry holiday to you too! How can I help you today?”

I toss the photo into the car, wishing the image out of my mind. “Hi, yes,” I say, attempting not to sound like someone who just saw Santa’s naughty list come to life. “I’m calling about my cabin reservation in Lake Tahoe. My plans have changed, and I’ll be arriving later than expected. I’d like a refund for those days.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Mr. Holiday Cheer responds, “but we can only offer a refund if you cancel the whole reservation.”

This day keeps on getting better. I look at the sea of balloons still refusing to fit in my car, and I’ve had enough. I grab a long-stemmed rose from the gift pile, and with vindictive pleasure, I pop a few balloons with its thorny stem.

POP! POP! POP!

Take that, false holiday cheer.

“Nope, keep it,” I tell the cabin guy. “I’ll be there on Christmas Day.”

I end the call and turn to face the fan frenzy swarming around Ethan. “We gotta go!” I yell, but he ignores me, posing like he’s auditioning for America’s Next Top Douchebag .

“Un-fucking-believable,” I groan. That attention whore is incapable of listening—probably because he can’t hear anything over the constant cheering in his head.

I watch the spectacle and notice the fans’ attire. They’re decked out in more Ethan merchandise than a clearance sale at a teen heartthrob convention. T-shirts, water tumbler stickers, socks with his face plastered on them. Who is pumping out all this unlicensed crap?

I can’t take this shit for another second. I storm over to the fan huddle. As I push through the crowd, trying to reach Mr. Popularity, a woman materializes, blocking my path like she’s beamed down from the fangirl mothership.

Her vibrant red hair and striking green eyes are the first things I notice, but it’s her attire that really steals the show. She’s not wearing normal clothes. Her outfit is a full-body prayer to the Church of Ethan.

Exhibit A: Crop top. Ethan’s Future Wife plastered across her chest. Because nothing screams “stable” like wearing your delusions.

Exhibit B: Jeans. Ethan’s face. On. Each. Ass. Pocket. Left cheek, right cheek, a butt cheek sandwich with a side of crazy sauce.

Exhibit C: Water bottle. A pic of Ethan’s shirtless abs with text that reads, “Sip it in, ladies.” What are we sipping? The Kool-Aid of wishful thinking? The tears of Ethan’s one-night stands?

The pièce de résistance…

Exhibit D: Necklace. An actual mold of Ethan’s puckered lips. For emergency smoochies . Feeling horny? Make out with this necklace!

I stand there, stupefied. Is this what it feels like to be Ethan? Surrounded by people who see you not as a person, but as some weird item to be worn and displayed? I kinda feel sorry for him.

“Hey there, pushy pants,” she hisses. “There’s a line. You need to wait your turn.”

I freeze, a chill running down my spine.

Shit. I know her.

She’s the Christmas cookie flasher. The woman from that X-rated photo I just crammed into my car, with baked goods barely covering her—

“I’ve seen your tits,” I blurt out before quickly correcting myself. “Er, um, I mean I’m Chase, and I’m actually Ethan’s girl—”

“Yeah, I saw your little performance on TV,” she interrupts, her eyes slanting with suspicion. “You’re the ‘surprise girlfriend.’” She gives me a cold once-over. “I thought you might be competition, but now I’m not worried.”

Ouch.

“You don’t even know me, so—”

She flips her hair. “Chase Pemberton, 32, Capricorn, from Evanston, Illinois, with a fashion sense as tragic as her social media presence.”

Shit! I forgot about social media. The only thing I post regularly is my… who am I kidding? I don’t post .

“I’m just… private.”

“Don’t worry, we totally respect that,” the red-haired siren says, patting my arm as if I’m a lost puppy. “I mean, it’s not like Ethan’s fans are interested in every tiny detail of his life. Oh wait, we totally are!” She laughs maniacally, and her minions join in like it’s a cult initiation.

The redhead turns her back on me and pushes her way to Ethan. S ure, the crowd parts for her. I try to follow and am immediately blocked by a wall of Ethan-worshippers. The woman giggles and squeezes next to him, putting her hand on his waist with the familiarity of a long-time friend… or something more.

“Ethan?” she coos, her voice dripping with sugar-coated venom. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your… girlfriend?”

Ethan, finally remembering I exist, comes over. “Chase, this is Gail. She’s the president of the Ethan Addicts fan club.”

“We just met,” I manage.

Gail eyes me skeptically. “We were all shocked to hear about your relationship, weren’t we, ladies?”

A chorus of agreement rises from the fan collective.

“Ethan’s never had a serious girlfriend before, at least not one he’s told us about.” She winks at Ethan, and I swear I see him blush.

Put on the spot, I fumble for a response. “Yeah, we wanted to keep things secret until we knew it was serious.”

“And how long have you and Ethan been dating?”

“Four months,” I say confidently, just as Ethan says, “A couple weeks.”

For the love of…

Gail’s smirk widens. “Fascinating,” she muses, “because you’re nothing like the dream girl he described in his last interview. What was it again, Ethan? A hot yoga instructor who loves rescuing kittens and white water rafting.”

My heart is doing backflips in my chest. How am I supposed to make this human lie detector believe I’m smitten with this jackass? Five seconds ago, I was ready to chuck my shoe at him.

Come on, get a grip. You’ve written approximately eleventy billion of these scenes. I frantically run through my mental archive of every rom-com I’ve created.

Gaze lovingly into his eyes?

Ha! I’d rather make prolonged eye contact with the camera during an awkward sex scene.

Snuggle up to him?

Hell no! I’d rather freeze my tits off cuddling a life-size Ethan ice sculpture.

Maybe a cutesy nickname?

Snookums? Honeybear? I’d sooner call him “Fuckboy McDreamy.”

I’ve got nothing.

What would his typical airhead dream girl do? Probably laugh at his jokes and compliment him relentlessly. “Oh, Ethan, your muscles look particularly bulgy today, especially the bulge in your pants.”

Gross. Fuck no.

In my movies, couples bond over something quirky and cute. But Ethan and I? The only thing we share is our mutual disdain for each other. Why is this so hard? I’ve written a dozen screenplays about fake relationships!

Screw it. If I can’t be the dream girl, I’ll be… whatever the hell I am.

I force a laugh. “You know how it is. Sometimes love jumps up and bites you like a venomous spider. Next thing you know, you’re mating and the female bites the man’s head off.”

Ethan breaks the awkward silence with a pity chuckle and says, “She’s a writer, this one, always making jokes.”

“Aren’t jokes supposed to be funny?” Gail quips.

Time to change the subject before I bite Gail’s head off. I address the crowd. “You’re all going to love Ethan in Fa La La Love . He sings in it.”

“The viewing party is already on the calendar,” Gail says. “We see everything Ethan stars in because he’s a true leading man.” Her eyes narrow even further (if that’s possible) . “I just hope you’re ready for the attention that comes with dating Ethan. His fans can be quite… passionate.”

What the hell is with this lady? I’ve faced down studio execs with god complexes and actors who think their hair is the center of the universe. Sorry, Gail. You don’t intimidate me.

“I can handle it,” I say, wrapping my arms around Ethan’s and ignoring how unexpectedly nice his bicep feels. “In fact, why don’t you keep an eye on Ethan’s social media? You’ll get all the spicy details about our romantic getaway to Florida.”

Ethan nods, a beat too late. “Yeah, it’s gonna be… great.”

Her smile is all teeth, no warmth. “We’ll be watching alright. Very, very closely.”

Gail and I lock eyes in a battle of wills. It’s all arched eyebrows and razor-sharp smiles, a silent showdown of “bring it” and “game on.” May the best badass woman win.

Ethan, sensing the impending catfight, steps in. “Sorry, ladies, we really need to go. Thanks again for coming out to support my—I mean our new movie.”

“Bye Ethan, we love you!” Gail calls out sweetly as we turn to leave. Then, loud enough to ensure I hear every syllable, she says, “We’ll be monitoring those relationship updates!”

As we make our escape, I can feel Gail’s stare burning holes in my back. It’s quickly replaced by Ethan’s growl.

“You,” he whispers, “have some serious explaining to do, Director Pemberton. Why the fuck did you just broadcast to the whole damn planet that we are an item?!”