Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ethan

“You washed my Christmas SpongeBob sheets? Aww thanks, Mama!”

I stride into my childhood bedroom, and it’s like I never left.

There are wall-to-wall memories, from my Pikachu posters to my Harry Potter magic memorabilia. My heart sings! And that desk in the corner? It’s like my high school yearbook in 3D. The playbills and trophies are a warm reminder of where my acting journey began.

I flop onto my bed, grinning. “The gang’s all here! Santa SpongeBob, Polar Patrick, Snowman Squidward!”

Mom beams, then turns to Chase. “Ethan got those sheets when he was twelve. He loved them so much, I caught him trying to stuff them in his suitcase when he moved to L.A.”

“Boys and their silly toys,” Chase manages. “And where will I be sleeping?”

“With me, of course.” I waggle my eyebrows and pat the bed.

“Oh… good. That’s what I was hoping for.”

“She tries to hide it, but she’s a big ole snugglepuss.” I leap up and squeeze her into a smooshy, overly sappy hug.

Huh. This feels… different.

For once, Chase isn’t her usual rigid self. She’s clinging to me, all soft curves and warm skin, setting my nerves ablaze as if someone struck a match. The scent is back—an intoxicating citrus aroma—wrapping around me like a sensual fog, and clouding my judgment.

For a heartbeat, I’m off script, lost in the moment. I forget we’re putting on a show.

Holding her is kinda… nice.

“Bless your heart, Chase. I don’t know how you do it,” my mom says, waking me from my haze. “Ethan sleeps like he’s tanglin’ with a gator, but hey, maybe that’s your cup of sweet tea. I ain’t one to judge.”

Chase’s arm slides behind my back. Her fingertips brush against the thin fabric of my shirt, sending pleasant shivers and raising goosebumps in their wake. The sensation is electric.

Well, damn. She’s got the touch of an angel. Or, more accurately, a she-devil wearing one hell of a tempting disguise.

Why am I suddenly imagining her touch everywhere ?

Her body goes rigid against mine. Before I can process the loss, pain explodes in my side.

What the actual fuck?!

The pinch is so vicious, I’m pretty sure she just removed a chunk of my flesh with her fingernails. I half expect to see blood.

Our eyes meet. For a second, something flashes on Chase’s face.

Confusion?

Lust?

The beginning stages of food poisoning?

We let go of each other faster than you can say “flustered.” I’m slightly wobbly, feeling like I just got off a roller coaster. My side hurts, my heart’s racing, and I have the strangest urge to hug her again.

“Now, this is the Jack and Jill–style bathroom,” Mom chirps, gesturing dramatically as though she’s showcasing a luxury spa. “Nolan’s room is on the other side of that door.”

Dad clears his throat. “Sorry, the door’s a bit jiggly.”

“You mean the lock that’s been broken for twenty years?” I jest.

“And I’m gonna fix it,” Dad justifies. “One of these days.”

Mom’s face suddenly lights up. “Douggie, go grab our special gifts for them!”

“Oh, you didn’t have to get me anything,” Chase says, her expression showing she’d rather take a bullet than accept a gift from my parents.

“Well, shucks, I know I don’t have to. I love to,” Mom replies, glowing.

“Gift-giving is my mama’s love language,” I say and then whisper to my mock girlfriend, “Mine’s physical touch, in case you were wondering.”

My lips brush against her ear, and once again, a little tingle catches me off guard. My eyes linger on the curve of her neck, the gentle fall of her hair, and the way her chest rises and falls with every breath.

Mom interrupts my gaze, bouncing with excitement. “And I’ve got an even bigger surprise for you guys tomorrow!”

Dad returns, arms laden with two gift boxes. Before he can hand them to us, Mom can’t stop herself from squealing, “They’re Christmas jammies!”

“Let’s all put on our holiday PJs and wear them to dinner!” Dad suggests, his enthusiasm rivaling a kid on Christmas morning. “Your mom made Bubbles his own sweater this year!”

“Ethan, we’re having breakfast for dinner,” Mom adds. “Your favorite!”

I glance at Chase, who's teetering on the edge of an implosion.

“That all sounds fun. But can you give us a minute to settle in? We’ll be right out after we catch a quick rest.”

Mom pulls me into another hug. “We are so tickled pink that you’re home!”

The moment the door closes, Chase, a tiny, furious tornado, whirls on me. “Ground rules, now!” she snaps. “I need to be told before you’re going to film. Before you touch me—”

“Nah, that ain’t gonna fly. My family is always around. Am I supposed to say, ‘Hey, Mama, this may sound weird, but my girlfriend likes me getting permission before I put my hands on her body.’”

“Ugh, fine. I get your point. But when we are filming, you need to warn me. You can’t just sneak attack me with the camera.”

“Sorry, no can do, buttercup. I’m an artist. Inspiration strikes when it strikes.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she accuses, her eyes blazing.

“More than Buddy the Elf loves syrup.”

Chase’s eyes narrow to slits. “The bed is mine. You can sleep in the bathtub for all I care.”

“Nice try, sweetheart. Despite this being my time off, you’re expecting me to be camera ready twenty-four-seven. And this mug”—I point to my face—“needs its beauty sleep to keep lookin’ this good. You can have the floor. I’ll even throw in my SpongeBob pillow.”

Her eyes scan the discolored, worn-out rug from my teenage years. She seems resigned, and for a moment, I’ve won. Then the door handle rattles.

Uh-oh. This is gonna freak her out.

The door flies open, and Bubbles waltzes in like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he kind of does.

“Oh yeah,” I drawl, enjoying the way Chase’s eyes bulge out of her head. “Did I forget to mention he can open doors with his tail?”

“Jesus Christ!” she screams, maneuvering me to be her human shield. “Fine, we’ll share the fucking bed!”

Chuckling, I usher Bubbles back out of my room and shut the door, jamming a chair under the handle for good measure. When I turn back, she’s having a full meltdown.

“I’m in hell. I must have died and been sent to Florida for crimes in a past life. How did I get stuck in this… this… swamp, doomed to spend eternity with tacky holiday decorations and a bunch of weirdos who are one gator short of a full zoo? And you—”

“Watch it, Your Highness. That’s my family you’re trash-talking.”

“I can put up with a lot of shit, but who the hell raises pet alligators? Any other insane surprises I should know about? A shark in the shower? A python guarding the fridge? Seriously, what’s wrong with your family?”

“Screw you. My parents have been nothing but welcoming,” I snap. “You don’t like it here? Go do the holidays your way. Visit your own damn family.”

She goes quiet, her face pale.

“Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, darlin’.”

Even more awkward silence. Well, fuck me.

I run a hand through my hair, trying to dial it back. “Listen, roomie. This whole ‘crashing my family vacation’ idea was yours, not mine. So suck it up. We do Christmas the same way every year. Keep your opinions to yourself or go home.”

I wrinkle my nose, catching a whiff of something funky. “How about you take a shower? You smell like Bubbles marked you as his territory, and I don’t want your stink ruining my dinner.”

“Gladly,” she mutters, grabbing her suitcase. “I’ll try to keep my opinions to myself, but your family is… a lot.”

“Hey, Stinky,” I call out, tossing her a gift box. “Don’t forget your festive jammies. Just cause you pissed me off doesn’t mean you should offend the whole family.”

Chase catches the box. “Do not come into this bathroom under any circumstance,” she warns.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

The bathroom door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.

I drop back onto my bed with a groan. I give her three days tops before she has a complete breakdown.

I whip out my phone and check the Cherish app: 12,000 paid subscribers. Only a handful more since earlier, but it’s a start—I’ll take it. I swipe it away and open Instagram, checking on my recent posts.

Yeesh. The fans are really going after my new girlfriend. Some of these comments are savage.

What’s with those funeral clothes…? Her photos give me frostbite… She’s as interesting as a bowl of oatmeal.

Guess I’ve got my work cut out for me. But hey, fake it ‘til you sleigh it! Right?

As I read through the comments, a realization hits me like a shockwave. They might not be digging our love story, but they sure as hell enjoy Chase being humiliated. Dang… The more she squirms, the more the likes skyrocket.

Interesting. I can work with that.

My eyes land on a comment from Gail: “I’d rather see Ethan date a burnt sea slug than her.” It already has 1500 likes. I chuckle. Gail’s always been my number-one fan.

And critic.

And possibly future stalker.

The shower kicks on with a hiss, and suddenly my brain is hosting a one-woman show featuring Chase—buck naked and bold as brass. She’s a goddess in that steam, water dancing down her body, tracing paths my fingers ache to follow. Her breasts are unrestrained and magnificent, and I hear delicate moans slip from her mouth while the water showers her with adoration. It’s music to my ears.

I give my head a sharp shake, trying to evict the mental image. No indulging in enemy-related fantasies! Even if that enemy has legs that stretch forever and a backside that deserves its own Pinterest board.

Damn it, Ethan, she hates your guts, she’d love to see you crash and burn, she’s completely off-limits—and she’s your fucking boss. You still have to work with her when this is over.

Logic kicks in, and I opt for a quick snooze. If Chase’s naked body makes an appearance, that’s on my subconscious.

A little shut-eye later… CRASH!

A noise from the bathroom awakens me.

“Chase?” I yell out. “You good?”

Silence.

“If you’re trying to make a break for it, no need. I’ll buy the plane ticket and drive you there myself!”

Still nothing. Not even a sarcastic fuck off . Now I'm concerned.

I hear a muffled sound that might be help . But then, she screams.

“HELP!!!”

In a split second, I scramble to the door. “Hey, what’s going on?”

I put my ear to the door… Nothing.

“I’m coming in.”

I swing open the door, steeling myself for whatever chaos awaits. I imagine the worst, but instead…

It’s equal parts hilarious and arousing. Chase is standing there in her underwear, battling a red sweater that’s trying to swallow her whole—arms stuck up in the air, head completely engulfed, and shirt barely covering her bra. She’s a modern-day mummy, but with way more underboob and a lot less dignity.

“Help!” she yells again. “I’m trapped!”

I rush over, stifling a laugh. “I am going to put my hands on you. Try not to get turned on.”

“ Now you ask for consent?”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Your mom’s PJs are the size of a toddler’s onesie!”

“Be still,” I command, grabbing on to the bottom of the sweater and yanking downward. “Man, this thing is on tight!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Chase shrieks. “Get it off, not on!”

I switch tactics, pulling on the shirt’s sleeves. “Why are you wearing this?”

“Huh? These are your mom’s stupid Christmas jammies.”

“This is so small, it’s obviously Bubbles’ sweater. There are flamingos on it.”

“Everything in this house has fucking flamingos on it!”

Chase flails wildly, banging into the door and knocking toiletries off the sink. “I can’t breathe!” she says. “Seriously… about to… blackout.”

“Bend over,” I instruct. “I’m going to pull it off from the bottom.”

I grunt with effort as I tug, but the damn thing won’t budge. It feels as though it’s been superglued on.

“For love of… Santa’s saggy ball sack,” she gasps out, her breathing growing more and more ragged. “G-G-Get m-m-me out of this s-s-straightjacket!”

Oh crap. She’s having a panic attack. Her breaths are quick and shallow, which sends my heart racing. I gotta do something drastic. Fast!

I grab a pair of scissors from the drawer. “Don’t move,” I order.

“Ethan, what are you doing? S-S-Stop,” she says, wheezing, “and t-t-tell me wh-what you’re—”

“Stay calm, I’m cutting through the fabric,” I say softly but firmly. “Trust me.”

I quickly cut through the back of the shirt, ripping it off and tossing it to the floor.

Chase breathes in large gulps of air—finally freed.

Only then do I realize she’s not wearing a bra.

Her breasts are fully exposed (oh holy night) , and they are spectacular.

The universe just gave me VIP access to the most incredible show on the planet. These aren’t ordinary breasts—they surpass the ones in my dreams: firmer, fuller, and begging to be worshiped.

“You cut my bra?!”

Before I can respond (or stop gawking) , the other bathroom door swings open. On instinct, I clasp my hands over Chase’s breasts. Did I want to cop a feel? Yes, but I’ll claim chivalry to my death.

Nolan, my brother, stands in the doorway to his bedroom. He looks at me and a half-naked Chase with my "hands bra" still in place. His expression is so neutral, he could be a sculpture dedicated to the art of indifference.

“Hey, bro,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Chase, this is my twin brother, Nolan. Nolan, this is Chase. She’s, uh, trying on her Christmas outfit.”

Nolan’s eyes flick between us, his expression unchanging. “Mom says it’s time for dinner,” he announces flatly. “I’ll tell her you’re having dessert first.”

Without so much as a backward glance, he shuts the door.

Awkward silence.

The warmth in my hands begs me to squeeze, to lose myself in the softness of her skin. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath, and I can feel her heart pounding under my palms—a frantic rhythm that echoes my own racing pulse. Every breath she takes makes it harder and harder to resist.

Chase’s voice snaps me out of it. “Take your hands off my chest.”

I can’t resist one last jab. “Warning. I’m going to be removing my strong, capable hands from your fabulous breasts now. Just giving you advance notice, like you wanted. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of my touch too suddenly—”

She shoves me hard enough to make me stumble. “Get out!”

“Next time I save your life, I don’t need a boob grab as payment,” I retort. “A simple thank-you will do.”