Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER EIGHT

Chase

I wake up and I'm totally confused. I feel like I just got tased. As my eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the curtains, I become aware of two things:

1. I’m sprawled across Ethan’s chest like it’s my own personal Tempur-Pedic mattress.

2. The Great Wall of Pillows I constructed between us last night? Demolished. Obliterated. Bye-bye.

Fantastic. Just fucking dandy.

I lift my head, ready to ninja-roll myself out of this awkward situation, when my gaze lands on something that makes me freeze. Squidward’s giant schnoz is staring at me in… 3D. Oh shit! It’s not his nose. There, proudly tenting the SpongeBob sheets, is Ethan’s morning wood.

Holy barnacles! That’s not a tent—it’s the whole damn circus.

My brain malfunctions. I’m caught between erupting into uncontrollable giggles or bolting towards the door. I try to move, but his arm is wrapped around me like a muscular python. When the hell did that happen? And why am I not bothered by it?

“Stop overthinking,” I mutter to myself. “Just get up. This never happened.”

Easier said than done. We’re basically fused together.

Then Ethan stirs.

His hand moves. Down. Under the sheets. Oh God.

He reaches between his legs—rearranging his impressive morning salute—when he mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like my name.

No. Way.

Is he dreaming about… me?

His hand moves faster. Squidward’s nose bounces.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

It’s hypnotic and scandalous. SpongeBob looks absolutely horrified.

Is this a scratch he plans to finish? I’m not sticking around to find out. I scramble off the bed, my cheeks flaming. Grabbing my clothes, I bolt for the bathroom.

I ease the door shut and slink to the floor, trying to calm my racing heart. It’s no use. Heat courses through me like an inferno as I think about Ethan’s embrace and his very impressive erection. Why am I tempted to climb back into bed with him and see what happens? I can almost sense his strong hands commanding me, his lips trailing kisses down my—

No. Hell no. The biological reaction to sharing a bed is messing with my head. Nothing good can come from thoughts like this. Except maybe multiple orgasms. I could march back into that room, straddle Ethan’s hips, and…

I need a cold shower! Or maybe a hot one, where I can take care of this ache between my thighs myself. Because right now, the only thing I want to subscribe to is whatever Ethan’s offering under those sheets. And that is a recipe for trouble.

***

The car rumbles across the bridge, and Marco Island looms ahead like a beacon. Sparkling water peeks between buildings along the shoreline. Sunlight dances on the waves. My eyes drink it all in. A blessed distraction from…

Nope. Not thinking about Squidward’s… nose.

Brain, I swear to God, if you go there one more time.

I shake my head so hard I nearly give myself whiplash.

“You alright there, Chase? You’re looking a little… twitchy.” Ethan’s voice oozes amusement.

Busted. “So, what’s the plan?” I squeak, clearing my throat. “How are we convincing everyone we’re more lovey-dovey than a Cherish Channel romcom?”

He flashes me that grin—the one that makes even grandmothers swoon and nuns question their life choices. “Don’t sweat it, sweetheart. I’ve got this under control.”

I bite back a snort. The day Ethan Barrett has anything under control is the day I’ll chow down on one of Darla’s flamingo-shaped oven mitts.

“I want details. We need a subscribers' plan.”

“Relax, Chase. Social media’s my playground. It’s my turn to take the lead.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “But first, my mom has a surprise for us.”

We pull up to a cluster of shops, each painted in soft pastels like a row of charming dollhouses. Charming brick walkways link them together, giving off such an adorable small-town vibe. You half expect a baker to pop out with free cupcakes.

My eyes land on a sign that reads “Darla’s Craft they just need to know I’m the damn boss and I get the job done.

So why does seeing Ethan interact with people make me feel so conflicted?

“More ice!” Ethan yells, getting the excited crowd to chant with him. “More ice! More ice!”

We’re standing on a tiny stage in a park, in front of the massive Marco Island Christmas tree. It’s almost as tall as the palm trees around it, all decked out with twinkling lights and tropical ornaments like seashells and starfish.

And what’s right in front of us? A not-so-hot tub that Ethan has converted into a giant polar plunge jacuzzi, decorated like Santa’s sleigh. Because nothing says Christmas like frozen nips.

I’ve heard jumping into ice baths is a trend or something. It’s good for your circulation, celebrities do it, blah blah blah. Ethan loves it, claiming it “makes you feel alive.” I’m alive enough, thanks. Besides, I’m pretty sure that hypothermia makes you feel dead.

“Can’t we just pretend it’s cold?” I ask.

“No way. It’s gotta be authentic, sweetheart. The fans will know.”

“Sorry, but you think people wearing shirts with Chathan on them are smart enough to know the difference?”

“This is why you need me,” he responds. “You don’t respect the fans.”

“I know what the subscribers pay for,” I argue, bristling at his accusation. “My movies. They love the stories that I write.”

“Getting them to watch the movie is one thing,” Ethan says. “But getting them to keep coming back for more? That’s a whole other level. It’s like the difference between a one-night stand and a committed relationship.”

“You’ve never had a real relationship, so how would you know?” I snark.

For a hot second, I catch a glimpse of something in his eyes. It’s quick, but it’s there. A flash of… hurt? Before I can dive deeper, Nolan materializes next to Ethan, holding a cooler filled with ice.

“Okay. It’s cold,” he deadpans, dipping his hand in the water.

“Keep pouring ice till it’ll freeze off a snowman’s dick,” Ethan instructs his brother.

I lift my gaze, and the number of admirers has tripled since we got here. Ethan raises his phone and shoots a quick video. “Only thirty subscribers to go. Time to call your mom’s Bunco pals or your long-lost cousin. We need them. We’re so close.”

He posts the video and then keeps waving at all the loyal supporters waiting for a pic.

His tactics make me cringe, but I can’t argue with their effectiveness. Sure, we’re not even close to a million, but damn if the man doesn’t know how to rally people to a cause. It’s annoyingly impressive.

Darla runs up to us wearing a Chathan shirt with boundless enthusiasm. “Wow, hun. Great crowd,” she gushes. “Oh look, there’s Mayor Seabrook!” She waves frantically. “Hiya, Teddy!”

“Darla, you don’t sell scuba suits at your store, do you?” I ask.

She gives me a playful arm slap. “You’re funny, Chase. That must be why my boy loves you.”

If she only knew.

“Sweetie, we gotta get your dad a picture. He’s running late at work.”

I want to protest, but Darla’s already staging Ethan and me close together. She takes a few steps back. “Smile!” she says, holding up her phone.

After a moment, she frowns. “Shucks, that’s not it. Ethan honey, how about you dip Chase? That’ll be cute.”

I whisper rage, “Ugh. Will you just dip me and get this over with?”

The second Ethan pulls me in and leans me back, the crowd swoons with applause.

“Oops, I missed it,” Darla says cheerfully. “No worries. I want to get the whole tree in the shot. Hold on.”

As Darla repositions herself, I notice Nolan, emotionless, pouring yet another cooler of ice into the hot tub. My nipples pop out at the sight. This is gonna suck.

Ethan tosses his phone to Nolan. “Be ready, bro. Go live right at 6:00.”

Nolan responds with the enthusiasm of a mannequin, his face a masterpiece of neutrality. Ethan seems to take it as, You got it, bro.

“Sweetie, give Chase a kiss for the picture!” Darla calls out.

I whisper under my breath, “What the fuck is happening? Tell her I’m not comfortable with PDA.”

Ethan gives me a light kiss on the cheek. Everyone (except me) groans in disappointment.

“A real kiss. Hurry up,” Darla insists. “Ain’t no time to be shy, lovebirds. The audience is waitin’.”

“She’s not gonna stop,” he warns.

“Fine, just make it quick.”

“Trust me, I will.”

He leans in and gives me a quick peck on the lips. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“I need you to hold the kiss so I can get the picture!” Darla pipes up again.

Stage Mom is relentless.

Then hell rains down on me as the enthusiastic crowd joins in, chanting, “Kiss her! Kiss her! Kiss her!”

Ethan shrugs apologetically. “Sorry, fans want it. And you want fans. We’re doing this.”

God, this is humiliating.

I regret everything—I don’t want to be here. I close my eyes…

Ethan leans in, crashing his mouth onto mine. His lips are soft at first, and then his kiss deepens, becoming more passionate, more demanding. He pulls me closer, and the obnoxious chanting and excited squeals fade to a whisper. My heart pounds wildly as he cups my face in his hands. The intensity of his touch surprises me.

I regret nothing—I sooo want to be here. It’s fucking electric.

My brain goes haywire as he devours my mouth. My inhibitions vanish, swept away by a flood of desire. I feel him shudder as I trace his bottom lip with my tongue. He presses his rock-hard erection against me, and goddamn—the jolt of pleasure nearly knocks me off my feet. I moan, and he swallows the sound. My spine tingles, every nerve ending a live wire, crackling with electricity.

I’ve filmed Ethan kissing lots of leading ladies. It took countless hours to manufacture a kiss that looked magical. Still, I always dreamed about what it would feel like. No wonder women throw their panties at him—if I’d known his kisses could set me on fire like this, I might have jumped him years ago.

Darla’s voice cuts through the noise. “Okay, you can stop. I probably got a good one. I took at least fifty, just in case.”

I yank myself away, but my head’s still spinning like I just downed a bottle of vodka and jumped off a merry-go-round.

Ethan and I lock eyes.

All dilated pupils and swollen lips.

What. The. Hell. Was. That?

His alarm goes off. Ethan’s expression changes instantly, and he switches to his announcer voice. He points to Nolan, who holds up his phone to start the livestream.

“We did it. Fifty thousand new subscribers for the Cherish Channel. Holy smokes! That means now we have to…” he pauses, inviting the audience to echo his shout. “Take. The. Plunge!”

Ethan rips off his shirt—the crowd goes wild.

He rips off his pants—they lose their shit!

He’s wearing a Santa-themed Speedo. I can’t look away. His package is wrapped better than any gift under the tree, and I’m suddenly feeling very… festive.

But then I remember why we’re standing here, at the edge of this ice-filled abyss. He grabs my hand, his fingers tightening around mine.

“Ethan, I changed my mind. I don’t want to—”

We’re airborne.

The fans are screaming. I’m screaming. My hoo-ha is screaming in anticipation of the ice-cold doom.

We hit the water with a force that knocks the air from my lungs. The cold is a thousand knives slicing through me, stealing my breath and freezing my screams.

Fuck me. I haven’t felt this alive in years.