Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Chase

How is Ethan talking me into these batshit crazy stunts?

The speedboat rocks beneath my feet as I eye the stepladder like it’s a trapdoor to hell. My “Santa’s Naughty Helper” costume makes Cardi B’s music video outfits look downright modest. This red satin bikini is barely holding in the twins, with the life vest doing its best to keep things PG-13. But my ass? It’s having a full-blown “main character” moment.

I squirm, painfully aware of how much skin I’m showing. Today’s stunt is even more outrageous, but hey, Ethan’s tactics are working. Not to kiss and tell, but we grew an additional 50,000 subscribers overnight after our alligator make-out session. Apparently, nothing screams “like and subscribe” like a potential trip to the ER.

And then today, BAM! We hit our 100k goal daily challenge within a few hours. We’re up to 400k subs now! I can’t believe it. Seven more days to go, and I’m feeling pretty freaking good about hitting our target.

Get those wallets ready, Wiley and Riley!

But first it’s time for me to give the fans what we promised. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the descent. Ethan is already perched on the ladder, his stupidly gorgeous blue eyes shining up at me. He looks annoyingly amazing in his red swim shorts. Those broad shoulders and sculpted arms? They’re impossible to ignore.

I’ve seen Ethan shirtless before. In Hollywood, you can’t swing a clapperboard without hitting a topless Ethan.

But this?

This is him in his natural habitat—half-naked and fully aware of the effect he has on women. Or, more specifically, this woman.

I need to remind myself that he’s an actor. Just yesterday he was explaining to me his process. Maybe he’s already figured out my spirit animal and how to sweet-talk his way into my pants. Nice try, guy, not happening.

“Hey there, sweetheart. You need a hand?” His voice is nonchalant, as if he’s asking if I want fries with that.

“No thanks,” I insist because I’m not some damsel in distress. But as I start to climb down, his hands find my waist, and oh my God, his touch is a pure shot of espresso.

“Careful now. Things tend to get slippery when wet,” he murmurs as I descend the access steps.

Each time his fingers graze my skin, sparks shoot through me, igniting a fire low in my belly that I’m desperately trying to ignore.

As I reach the base of the ladder, his palms slide down to my hips, then lower. I can’t hold back the gasp as he gives my ass a squeeze that’s anything but innocent.

“Ethan!” I hiss, throwing him a scowl over my shoulder.

He grins, completely shameless. “What? Just making sure the director knows she’s in good hands.”

His voice rumbles through me, all low and husky and irritatingly sexy. I’m supposed to be immune to his charms, but my knees are buckling. I mentally draft a strongly worded letter to my body: Knock this shit off.

For a moment, his eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, are dark and intense. I find myself drawn in by some magnetic force I can’t resist—

“Hold on to this for me?” Ethan says, breaking the spell and handing me his life jacket. Without hesitation, he dives headfirst into the water, swimming swiftly towards a two-person raft.

I watch him slice through the current, trying my best not to notice the way his muscles ripple with each stroke. Definitely not admiring. Except… okay, fine, it’s mesmerizing.

He reaches the inflatable and pulls himself up with an effortless heave. Liquid cascades down his body, and I am transfixed. Droplets cling to his abs, catching the sunlight. They’re like tiny, sparkly glitter bombs, and I’m fighting the urge to start a rave of my own…

On his stomach.

With my tongue.

Hold up. What the hell?

I close my eyes, trying to banish these utterly inappropriate thoughts. No, I do not want to lick him like a delicious ice cream cone on a hot summer day.

Who am I kidding? I totally do. God help me, I do.

He sits up, steadying the raft. “Coming aboard? Or are you just gonna keep enjoying the view?”

I roll my eyes. “You wish I was staring, Barrett.”

“Pssh. I know you were.” He smirks, extending his hand.

I grasp it, doing my best to ignore the spark from his touch. “I’ve got it, thanks—”

And then with the grace of a clumsy stripper… I slip.

His strong arms catch me, and he falls onto his back. My hands are splayed on his pecs, and I can feel his heart racing beneath my palms.

“If you wanted to get on top of me, there are easier ways.”

I push against his chest, attempting to get up. “In your dreams.”

His embrace tightens around me. “Oh, trust me, my dreams are a hell of a lot more interesting than this.”

“Guys?” Nolan calls out from the boat. “You ready to get into position?”

“Always on point with your timing, bro,” Ethan remarks playfully.

We awkwardly separate, and I try not to mourn the loss of contact.

What is wrong with me today?

Ethan helps me turn onto my stomach, his hands lingering as he guides mine to the raft handles. Every touch feels deliberate, charged. His fingers trail fire across my skin, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a very inappropriate sound.

“Comfortable, darlin’?”

“About as comfy as you can get when you’re about to risk your life for some likes,” I grumble.

Am I crazy, or is Ethan being extra touchy-feely today? I mean, every little brush of his skin is saying, “Hello, fire department.” Or is this his usual MO with all women? Perhaps he’s just keeping his game sharp while he’s stuck playing my fake boyfriend?

“Live a little, Chase. It’ll be fun.”

“Your idea of fun and mine are vastly different.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, voice low. “What’s fun for you?”

Images flash through my mind, all involving Ethan and significantly fewer clothes (which says a lot, given my skimpy outfit) . “Not something you need to know.”

“You sure about that? I’m pretty confident I could change your mind about what fun we could have.”

I turn my head to look at him, ready with a snappy comeback, but the words die in my throat. His eyes are dark, intense, fixed on me as if I’m the only thing in the world.

“Chase,” he continues softly, “I—”

Nolan shouts, “Alright, guys! Ready for the signals? This means start.” He makes a thumbs-up gesture. “And this means stop.” He demonstrates, making a motion with his palm facing out. “Got it?”

Ethan and I nod, the moment broken.

We’re being dragged at least a jillion miles an hour on a giant inflatable death trap. Okay, maybe not quite that fast, since a Jimmy Buffet booze cruise just floated past us. But I’m clinging to this tube like it’s the last life preserver on the Titanic. Praying to every deity I can think of that the rope isn’t as flimsy as my dignity.

How, in a matter of days, have I gone from respected director to jackass stuntman?

“Are you sure this is safe?” I ask, my voice embarrassingly squeaky.

“Totally. Nolan and I did this all the time growing up.”

“Yeah, and I bet you also thought Tide Pods were breath mints and Sharpies were fun to smell. Your childhood shenanigans aren’t boosting my confidence here.”

“You want proof you’ll be okay? Fine. Look at me. I’m alive. And you will be too.”

He’s too cocky to even realize we’re in danger. We’re about to be dragged through the water at oh-shit-miles-per-hour on a glorified pool floatie, then launched off a ramp forty feet into the air.

What could possibly go wrong? Oh, I don’t know… EVERYTHING?

The reality of the impending disaster settles in. My chest tightens—I’m having a panic attack.

“Chase, nothing bad will happen.”

“If the rope doesn’t snap or decapitate us,” I counter. “And if we don’t get devoured by a Kraken. There’s still a high probability of drowning.”

“Krakens aren’t native to Florida.”

“Neither is common sense, apparently!”

Ethan’s eyes soften, and he takes a real, long look at me. He lays a calming hand over my white-knuckled grip on the tube handle.

“I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

I melt. I believe him.

Damn him and his sexy reassurance. It’s one thing for his ardent fans to fall for this act, but me? Why is my body reacting this way? Every cell of mine is screaming, “Girl, forget the hate. Let’s get it!"

I pause, realizing what this is, and admit it to myself. I haven’t had sex in a very, very long time. My vagina has turned into a deserted playground, with rusty rides and no visitors in sight.

Staying single is common in Hollywood. Usually, the dating process lasts longer than the actual relationship. That’s certainly been my experience with guys in LA. So why bother? But right now, with Ethan’s thigh pressed to mine, “Why bother?” is starting to sound similar to “Why not?”

He shifts, turning onto his side to pull the phone from his pocket. He secures it into a wrist holder with a tight Velcro strap and connects the phone with a cord. No chance it's falling off in the water. He lies back, this time his entire body presses into mine—and good Lord, do I like it. A lot.

An endless GIF of this morning’s scenes keeps replaying in my brain. I woke up, draped over Ethan like he was mine. My face was snuggled into his neck—my lips grazing his stubble. Damn, it felt good.

I wonder how it would feel if my mouth accidentally landed on his.

My focus catches Ethan’s eyes roaming over me in a slow, sensual sweep, as if he’s mentally peeling away my skimpy bikini, revealing every inch of skin. His gaze drops to my mouth, and my heart races wildly.

I swallow hard, resisting the urge to lick my suddenly dry lips. Does he want to kiss me as badly as I’m dying to kiss him?

Gah! All of this fake relationship crap is really messing with my head. Maybe if I get a “fake boyfriend” tattoo, my body will get the message.

This is just a job.

A job to save my real job.

To save who I really am—who I want to be.

These feelings aren’t real. They’re… method acting.

I’m playing the part of Ethan Barrett’s girlfriend… for now. For a few more days. Soon, I will escape to my Christmas cabin and start writing my next movie.

One that doesn’t star Ethan “Walking Wet Dream” Barrett.

Nolan yells at us from the helm of the idling speedboat. He waves his hands until he sees he has our attention, then gives us a thumbs-up. That’s the signal.

My mock boyfriend holds up a hand, palm facing his brother, signaling to wait.

“Okay, sweetheart, it’s showtime.”

Ethan taps his phone, going live. “What’s up, Ethan Addicts! I know you’ve been waiting for this. We got some high-flying aquatic action.” He turns to me with a wink. “Any last words, babe?”

“I hate this. I hate this. I hate this!” I slur the words together.

He wears a devilish grin as he turns back to the livestream. “She’s having the time of her life, folks. She just doesn’t know it yet!”

I glance at the phone screen—within seconds, the viewer count shoots up into the tens of thousands. Viewer hearts and comments fly by faster than my rising blood pressure, with a blur of emoji vomit.

Ethan starts greeting his adoring fans. “Well, hello there, Gail!”

Gail. Even her name tastes bitter on my tongue like I’ve licked the bottom of a public trash can. I can picture her smug face now, probably glued to her phone—her only lifeline to this obsession.

Ethan chuckles. “Gail's comment says, ‘Ten bucks you chicken out and jump ship, but if you don’t, then she prays for a wardrobe malfunction,’” he teases. “And oh, there’s more, lots more.”

No doubt this girl has her manicured talons poised to spread more venom the second I fail. The psycho lives for this shit, feeding off drama like an emotional vampire. Get a life, lady.

“I’m paraphrasing here,” he continues, “but basically she wants you to drown so hard, even the fish will be saying, ‘Damn, that’s brutal.’”

The rage bubbling inside me is so hot I’m a volcano of “Bitch, please.” Who does this discount store groupie think she is? She could never land someone as hot as Ethan, famous or not.

Oh, Gail. You poor, delusional little gnat. I’m in Florida. Just this morning, I’ve eaten bigger bugs than you for breakfast.

I flash a sugary-sweet smile to the lens. “Be careful what you wish for. If I go down, Ethan goes with me.”

That’s it. I’m turning this tube ride into a middle finger so big it’ll be visible from space. Gail wants a show? I’ll give her a goddamn IMAX experience of her crushed dreams with surround sound and complimentary popcorn.

I wink at the camera teasingly. “First, how about a good luck kiss?”

Then, before my brain can catch up with my body and scream, What the hell are you doing? , I grab Ethan’s face and plant a big ole kiss right on his lips. Take that, Gail. Choke on it.

I pull back, riding high on adrenaline and spite, only to see the shock in his eyes. He wasn’t…

Expecting. Feeling. Or wanting that kiss.

Oh shit.

My stomach drops faster than we’re about to on this death trap. Panic mode: activated.

I channel my inner director and shout at the top of my lungs, "NOLAN!" My thumb shoots up.

Thankfully, Nolan sees my signal and punches the boat into high gear before I die of embarrassment.

We take off in a flash, and I’m pretty sure I see my stomach (and my dignity) back on dry land sipping umbrella drinks and wishing me luck. It’s all I can do to hold on. I’m bobbing up and down, thrashing wildly, and just one jolt away from flying to my death.

“Here comes the jump!” Ethan shouts, pointing ahead with childlike glee. He whoops and hollers like a true adrenaline junkie.

I spot the ramp through the waves just ahead of us. Holy fuck! The thing is taller than a freaking skyscraper.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!”

I’m about to die. Today is the day this attention-obsessed lunatic kills me. I’d pictured my death being somewhat more civilized, like choking on caviar or being crushed by my tower of unread scripts. But no, I’m going to bite it in the freakin’ Gulf of Mexico.

We hit the ramp.

We’re airborne.

I scream.

He’s cackling with glee.

We hang in the air. For a moment. Sheer. Frozen. Terror.

WHAM!

We crash back into the water with such force that I swear my uterus just high-fived my tonsils.

Ethan lets out a victory cry. “Holy shit! Did you see that?”

I don’t respond. I’m doing a mental headcount of my limbs and internal organs. I’m not dead, and even better, my bikini is still on (suck it, Gail!)

Then it's as if Gail has some kind of supernatural, vengeful powers. A speedboat zooms by, kicking up a massive wake, and we go flying off the tube.

I’m underwater for an eternity—swirling currents have me upside down and disoriented. I have no idea which way is up. Thankfully, my life jacket pops me to the surface.

Ethan swims over, still clutching that damn phone connected with velcro to his wrist like a teen girl juggling three boyfriends.

“You okay?” he asks, and he actually looks concerned. It’s almost enough to make me forgive him. Almost.

“Superduper,” I gurgle, half the Gulf of Mexico expelling from my lungs.

“Gals, we did it! We conquered the tube of doom!” Ethan announces to his adoring audience. “Tune in tomorrow for another naughty or nice dare. This is your favorite holiday hunk, signing off!”

He ends the livestream, turns, and sees me glaring.

“Are you going to film my reaction every time you try to murder me?”

“Is that why you laid one on me earlier? Figured you’d better get your last kiss in before meeting your watery fate?”

“That little lip brush? Please. I was practicing CPR. Someone’s gotta be ready to revive your sorry ass when one of these stunts backfires. Can’t finish the movie without my leading douchebag, can I?”

“Aw, darlin’,” he coos, swimming closer. “No need to make excuses. We both know you were finally admitting your burning desires.”

“My only desire is to watch you drown,” I answer, keeping my head above the surface.

Before he can respond, a fleet of jet skis races past, churning up a wake that sends waves crashing over us. Ethan’s arms are around me in an instant, pulling me close as we bob in the water like awkward buoys. Our eyes lock…

And then he kisses me.

Holy mother of mistletoe.

His dynamite lips taste of salt water and sin.

My fingers dive into his wet hair, nails raking his scalp as the kiss turns ravenous. He groans into my mouth, the vibration shooting straight to my core. And oh my fuck , his lips. Ethan is doing this mouth-orgasm-inducing thing with his tongue that has me seeing stars. I can barely breathe, and I don’t care. I want more.

I want his lips on my neck.

On my breasts.

In between my legs.

I’m drowning in him, and it feels so fucking good.

He grabs my ass, pulling me closer, as if he can’t get enough either.

I wrap my legs around his waist, and the ache between my thighs grows. Especially when his hardening cock presses against my clit through the thin fabric of my bikini. My vagina twitches, begging for more. His length is pressing, rubbing, teasing me while waves rhythmically bob us up and down… up and down.

Is the water getting hotter? Do I see steam? I’ve lost all rational thought.

“Yes, harder,” I murmur against his lips, our breaths mingling, hot and desperate.

I shamelessly grind against his shaft. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but he’s stimulating my clit with a featherlike rapidness that is teasing me to the edge. But I need more than teasing. I want release.

“Harder,” I demand.

“Fuck, yeah,” he says in a low growl that sends shivers down my spine.

His grip intensifies, but his “clit rhythm” remains gentle. He’s battling the waves and trying to connect with me where I need him. Yet, I yearn for more firmness. Odd.

“Adjust your dick and apply pressure.”

“Are you really directing me right now?”

“Clearly, you need some guidance. Points for the fast flicking action, but where’s the pressure? It’s going to be dark before I come.”

“The waves aren’t making it easy to hold on to you.”

“Okay, stop. Seriously. Ethan! Stop flicking my clit!”

“I’m not touching you,” he says, his brows furrowing in confusion.

What the…

“Get it out!” I scream, flailing my arms and splashing. “It’s touching my pussy!”

“Chase! Be still.”

“The thing is trying to swim inside me! Oh God! Gross!”

Ethan grabs onto me, plunging his hand down my bikini bottoms.

“It’s so slippery!” he yells, his fingers moving wildly as the mysterious creature wriggles and squirms. “Is that a—?”

“Goddammit! Get it!” I order.

Ethan’s hand locks around the slimy intruder, and he yanks it out with a look of utter revulsion. As the creature surfaces, I’m greeted by the horrifying sight of an ugly, blunt-nosed fish with long whiskers. The aquatic pervert wears a smirk that says, Was that as good for you as it was for me?

The fish wriggles free from Ethan’s grip and lunges toward me, its mouth opening and closing like it wants to give me a disgusting, unwanted kiss.

“Stay back, you clit-flicking fish!” I scream, splashing and thrashing frantically.

In my frenzy, I accidentally smack Ethan square in the face. “Ow! Fuck!” Ethan exclaims, rubbing his cheek.

I’m still flailing when I hear a boat engine approaching. In true Nolan fashion, he has materialized out of nowhere and looks supremely uncomfortable.

“Hey,” Nolan says. “Are you two having ocean sex? Cuz I can leave.”

I gape at him, my thoughts scattering like a flock of seagulls spotting a dropped hot dog. “What? No! There was a fish—and it—and then I—and Ethan—” I splutter.

Great. I’ve officially lost it.

Ethan, the gorgeous jerk, can’t stop laughing. “Sorry about that, bro. Chase was just trying to shake off some affection from a catfish Casanova. Apparently, she’s irresistible to all species.”

I shoot him a glare, then swim to the boat without looking back. As I haul myself up, I form a two-step plan:

Step one: No more ocean, or Gulf, or whatever the fuck it’s called.

Step two: Avoid Ethan Barrett and his almost orgasm-inducing lips.