Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER FIVE

Ethan

“Oh my God, this humidity is a fucking disaster,” Chase complains.

We step out of the airport in Miami, and her hair goes full poodle. Picture if Medusa, Einstein, and a startled porcupine got together and said, “Let’s make a hair monster.” And they did.

“You look like you fucked a light socket,” I joke. “Most people need a whole glam squad to get their hair so teased out. You’re like a one-woman homage to Twisted Sister.”

“I hate this place already,” she groans, trying to tame her frizzy mane.

We’re standing in the rental lot, surrounded by a sea of shiny vehicles roasting on the asphalt. I wipe the sweat from my brow. The humidity is so intense you practically have to swim through it. Planes roar over us, and I can feel Chase melting down from the combination of heat, moisture, and noise. Seeing her so miserable, I realize… this is gonna be fun!

“Florida’s a whole different ball game. You either fall in love with it, or you’re booking the next flight out.”

The woman has been a nonstop complaint factory since we boarded the plane. First, she criticized my ‘excessive manspreading.’ Then she found fault with my ‘obnoxious’ chewing of the complimentary pretzels. She also went on a tirade about my ‘incessant knee bouncing’ and how my ‘unnecessarily large biceps’ were invading her personal space.

But then, miracle of miracles, she fell asleep... on my shoulder. I didn’t dare move a muscle. I sat there, stiff as a board, terrified that the slightest twitch would wake the sleeping beast and unleash fresh hell. There was one little bonus from the flight—that fact that I can still smell her alluring citrus scent on me.

And now she’s wearing all-black again for our fun Florida getaway. She views it as professional while I see it as a sad, misguided storm cloud crashing a beach party.

I pull out my phone, stand next to her, and snap a quick selfie. “Smile!”

I dictate the caption, enjoying how it makes Chase squirm. “Meet The Frizzinator : my girlfriend’s new look, courtesy of Florida’s sultry embrace. #HairGoneWild.”

“If you post that —”

“Whoops,” I say, tapping Post with a smirk. Before she can smack me, I tuck a wild strand of hair behind her ear. “This is what you signed on for. Unless you wanna call it off, darlin’?”

Chase fixes me with a piercing gaze. “Don’t. Call. Me. That.”

“What’s the problem, pookie?” I lean in. “Not a fan of pet names, sweetheart?”

“Not from you. And especially not ‘darlin’ or ‘sweetheart.’ I’m your director, not your actual girlfriend.”

She yanks her suitcase handle with enough force to take down a small child and starts marching through the row of cars. I follow behind, watching the sway of her hips. Even pissed off, she’s got a walk that could stop traffic.

“Come on now, honeybun. How else will my family be convinced of our steamy romance? Buttercup? Snookums? Ooh, I know, how about sugar tits?”

She whirls around so fast I nearly plow into her. Her chest heaves (hey there) , and I force my eyes up to her face. Her very angry face. “How about you call me by my name? Or better yet, don’t talk to me at all.”

“Now where’s the fun in that, pumpkin?” I smirk.

“I’ve got a few choice names for you,” she growls, jabbing a finger into my chest. “Jackass. Egomaniac. Walking HR violation. Take your pick.”

I catch her fingers, pressing them firmly against my pecs. Her palm is warm, and I can feel my heartbeat pick up. “Careful there, lovebug. A guy might think you’re coming onto him with all this touching.”

Her eyes darken, and for a moment, I think she might actually kiss me. Or kill me.

She yanks her hand away. “Touch me again, and I’ll make sure you can’t sit comfortably for a week.”

“Kinky…” I wink. “I always knew you had a wild side, baby.”

“You’re impossible,” she mutters, pulling away.

“Impossibly charming? Devilishly handsome? Irresistibly—”

“Annoying.”

“You love it,” I tease, falling into step beside her.

My grouchy travel buddy rolls her eyes and takes a breath. I can almost see her counting to ten in her head. “Let’s find the car so we can get some AC.”

I slam the button on the key fob. A cherry red Mustang convertible chirps back like it’s happy to see us. Chase’s face goes through a dozen different expressions in one fleeting moment, landing somewhere between I’m gonna hurl and Do they have the death penalty in Florida?

“A convertible? In this sauna? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“My turf, my rules. Equal partners, remember?”

“I didn’t think it was possible to hate you more than I already do. Congrats, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“Oh, you wait. We’ve got two whole weeks ahead of us.”

We climb into the car. I rev the engine and peel out of the parking deck. The Florida sun hits me with its warm caress, and I feel something inside me uncoil. I’m home.

Miami is its own world—a cocktail of cultures served in a glass rimmed with beach sand and tourist traps—and I love it, but what I love more is the moment I hang a left onto Highway 41, head toward the Everglades, and leave the concrete jungle in my rearview.

I’m alive!

The landscape opens up around us, wild and untamed, just like yours truly.

“Where are you taking me?” Chase asks, her voice laced with suspicion. “I thought you lived in Miami?”

“I said I live close to Miami. Marco Island is my home,” I reply, puffing out my chest like a proud peacock.

“Is that a real place, or did you just make that up to mess with me?”

I chuckle. “Oh, it’s real. Sit back and enjoy the drive. We’re taking the scenic route.”

As we cruise along, I drink in the sight of the endless wetlands covered in green sawgrass—cypress trees scattered across the shimmering waterways. It’s a scene from a movie, but better. The beautiful blue sky—no L.A. smog—and pure, puffy white clouds.

This. Is. Livin’.

Don’t get me wrong, Hollywood’s a crazy ride, but there’s something about the untamed terrain of Florida that blows L.A. out of the water.

I take a deep breath, savoring the mix of earthy wetland aromas and rich swampy smells. I glance over at Chase, expecting to see her equally enraptured by the view. Instead, she’s gagging dramatically. Her face is scrunched up like she’s caught a whiff of a particularly ripe dumpster.

“What in the ever-loving fuck is that smell?” she chokes out. “Did something die?”

“That’s nature’s perfume,” I say, patting the steering wheel affectionately. “Nothing rivals the smell of the wetlands.”

“Please, put the top up. I will pay you $500. I’m seriously going to throw up.”

I grab the pine-scented air freshener off the rearview mirror and toss it to her. “Here, I’ll enjoy the swamp, and you can protect your nose with the manufactured scent of Christmas.”

“You had to grow up in Florida, didn’t you?” she complains. “This is not Miami. This is a wasteland. How are we supposed to promote the movie in Dump Water, Nowhere?”

I give an empty chuckle, trying to shake off Chase’s judgment of my childhood, my values, my home. You invited yourself here, you selfish little— I stop myself, smiling with satisfaction at how miserable she is.

She can wallow all she wants. I’m in my happy place.

“Trust me, Christmas in Florida is magical. It’s not like any other place on Earth,” I say, my hometown pride taking over. “My family has lots of fun holiday traditions that don’t involve freezing our butts off.”

“Let me guess… Instead of an ugly sweater contest, it’s an ugly bikini contest?” she snarks.

“When you report back to your leader, Satan, can you ask him if you’re allowed to wear a bikini while you’re here and maybe smile a little? I know he has a strict ‘no fun in the sun’ policy.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“That’s why you love me, sweetheart,” I say, blowing her a kiss.

We roll down the sun-kissed stretch of road, the Sunshine State showing off her best. I’m grinning ear to ear, but her face suggests she’s considering jumping out of the moving car. There’s lush greenery everywhere and critters that most people only meet on their TV screens.

A group of herons wade through the shallow water, and I gesture out the window. “Check that out. Pretty amazing, right?”

Chase barely glances up from her phone, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Mmhmm,” she mumbles, unimpressed.

“Picture this: Christmas in the Keys —a Cherish Channel original. Sun, sand, and sizzling vacation romance. It’d be unforgettable, don’t you think?”

She shakes her head. “No snow, no Christmas movie. That’s not my rule—that comes straight from the Network. Now shut up. I’m trying to work.”

And she’s back to her phone, frowning at the screen. “God, the reception out here is awful.”

I reach over and gently lower her phone. “Hey, Workaholic. You do realize you’re missing out on a live-action National Geographic special? Actual living creatures surround us on all sides. Do you really want to ignore this natural wonder to check emails?”

Her eyebrows raise, and she glares as if I’ve suggested we strip naked and wrestle gators, but then her face softens. “Fine,” she says, slumping back in her seat. “So, tell me about this redneck Christmas of yours. Does Santa bring moonshine instead of milk and cookies?”

“Fair warning, you’re about to witness the Barrett Family Christmas Extravaganza. It’s like a Vegas show meets the North Pole. And you? Well, let’s just say you might want to tap into some of my holiday spirit. You’re gonna need it.”

Because her dark, brooding cloud of holiday loathing won’t cut it when we get there. My family? They make the Griswolds look like amateurs in the holiday cheer department.

“My mom’s gonna want to know all about you. So, tell me some stuff.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Your childhood, your parents?”

“Nope, I don’t discuss that.” Her tone leaves no room for argument.

“My mom is going to ask.”

“Then you’ll need to tell her that it’s personal.”

“So, what am I allowed to tell her? Give me something here, Ice Queen.”

Chase sighs, acting as if I’ve asked her to donate both kidneys and maybe a lung. “Tell her I’m from Evanston, Illinois. I’ve always wanted to direct. I went to USC to get my filmmaking degree. My job is my whole fucking life.”

“Well, that’s depressing,” I say before I can stop myself. “Isn’t Northwestern a film school around there? Why didn’t you go to that university? Too many corn fields?”

“Because I needed to get as far away from that hellhole as possible.”

There’s definitely more to that story. I’m about to ask my next question when her phone chirps.

“Network update,” she mutters, scowling at the screen. “They’ve created a real-time subscriber counter app. We’ve pulled in 10,000 new paid subs for the Cherish Channel so far.”

“That’s awesome!” I say, feeling a surge of excitement.

“That’s it?! You’ve got over a million social media followers. Where the hell are they, and why aren’t they coming over? Ten thousand is not gonna cut it. This plan is doomed.”

“You’re looking at this all wrong. Most of my followers are already subscribed. You’re welcome, by the way! That means we gotta reach new people—lots of them, since you’ve set the bar sky-high. It’s doable, but you have to believe. That’s how Christmas magic works.”

Now I’m being looked at like I’ve sprouted antlers. “Magic? What are you, five?”

“What made our first movie blow up?” I ask. “You didn’t see it coming. Neither did I.”

“It was my writing and my directing.”

“Nah, it wasn’t even my rock-hard abs or my irresistible charm.” I shake my head, grinning. “It was Christmas magic. And for those who believe, it comes every year.”

“We need a strategy, a social media campaign. Not a general feeling of goodwill.”

“I know,” I say nonchalantly, pointing to my head. “I’m working on a plan as we speak.”

“I don’t know if you should be thinking and driving. That’s asking a lot from that pretty boy brain of yours.”

“You can knock off all the bull—”

“AARGH!”

Chase screams, “Oh my God, oh my God, I swallowed something! I freaking hate this disgusting, sticky, bug-infested hellhole!”

“Lighten up. It’s a bug. Probably a mosquito.” I wink at her. “They’re the state bird of Florida, you know.”

She coughs and hacks, as if trying to expel a demon. Then she grabs her water bottle and starts chugging, trying to drown the bug. In her frenzy, she spits out the side of the car.

Straight. Into. The wind.

The spray comes right back, splattering her face.

I lose it, howling with laughter. Chase looks like a cat that fell into a bathtub—frizzy hair, streaky makeup, and soaking wet.

“Hey, look on the bright side,” I say, gasping between chuckles, “at least the water’s blending in with all that sweat. Florida’s natural moisturizer, baby!”

She is not amused—that oh-so-familiar look of murder on her face once again. “I hate you, and I hate Florida.”