Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Chase

Hang me like a stocking on a stripper pole. I have got to be around people today. Ethan deserves that “ladies’ man” title—his hands have some kind of magic sex glue, because once they’re on you, you do not want them to come off.

I’m keeping my distance, and by “distance,” I mean just a pheromone’s waft away. Ethan’s loading box after box of decorations onto a double-decker pontoon boat. All the boats in the harbor share a similar decorative theme—half-working strings of lights, inflatable flamingos, and enough plastic palm leaf garlands to make a low-budget luau.

It’s gaudy as hell, but I can appreciate the commitment. The Cherish Channel would never fork over the funds to create a spectacle like this.

Ethan’s tight T-shirt and jeans hug his body like they’re afraid to let go (tell me about it) , and there’s a Santa hat tucked into his back pocket. He looks like he’s starring in a XXX-Mas special, and my body is all, Santa, I’ve been very, very bad.

My face blushes.

My heart quickens.

I force myself to look away, but not before my tongue pays tribute, darting out to lick my lips.

“Chase, hun, you are in for such a treat tonight,” Darla chirps, breaking me from my Ethan-induced trance. “The holiday boat parade is my favorite every year. We start with a little Mardi Gras celebration, throw in some Christmas flair, and wa-lah! We got ourselves a party on the waves!”

“Then I’m bringing the eggnog margaritas, Darla!” I practically sing it, for fuck’s sake. Oh yeah, all the sex is definitely going to my brain.

“Do you enjoy yourself out on the water?” Doug asks, sporting an alligator-themed Christmas shirt that’s so hideous, even a thrift store would reject it.

Before I answer, Ethan chimes in. “Chase likes the ride if she’s at the helm.” He throws me a wink.

“You’re right, I do like to be on top… of things,” I reply. “Problem is, Ethan can’t keep up.” I wink back with a surge of satisfaction.

That’s right, buddy. This director can play dirty too.

Darla fans herself dramatically with a plastic flamingo. “I thought I was having a hot flash, honey, but nuh-uh. It’s the sparks flying between the both of you!” She dissolves into a fit of giggles. “You two get any hotter, and we won’t need these Christmas lights!”

“You know me,” Ethan says. “I’m always a big fan of fireworks. Especially when it comes to lighting Chase’s fuse.”

I’m locked and loaded, ready with a snappy retort involving bottle rockets and certain body parts, when Ethan grabs me, pulling me in for a kiss that makes my toes curl in my sandals.

He has lit my fuse.

And it’s burning hot.

Suddenly I want to be anywhere but in this crowd. For a hot second, I wonder if this boat has a bedroom. Or hell, I saw some port-a-potties when we were walking down the dock…

Get a grip, vajayjay!

Okay, enough. I need to focus on work. This isn’t some tropical getaway. It’s a job. Even if that job currently involves being pressed against abs that could slice through steel.

I pull away from the kiss, trying to ignore how his lips chase after mine. “I’ve been doing the math for our subscriber goal,” I say, my voice embarrassingly breathy. “And I was thinking—”

“Bah. We’ll deal with it later. Let loose and have some fun decorating. Ya know, be part of the Christmas festivities.”

“We’ve only got five days left. Sure we’re on track, but we can’t afford to lose focus.”

“It’s always work with you. Fine.” Ethan sighs. “Mama, can you start decorating without us? Chase and I got a work thing.”

Darla’s eyes twinkle. “If that’s what you’re gonna call it, fine by me. Just don’t forget to hang your stockings with care, if you catch my drift. Ya know, wrap up that present extra tight… Unless you’re hankerin’ for a special little delivery.” She sighs dreamily.

As soon as we’re out of earshot, I hiss, “Your mom thinks we’re leaving to go have sex, doesn’t she?”

“Yup.”

“Tell her we’re not. I don’t want her thinking we’re getting freaky. It’s embarrassing.”

“You want me to lie to my mom, before Christmas?”

“Either that, or we are not having sex anymore,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

Ethan leans in close, his breath hot against my ear. “I know you love my cock. But if you think you can live without it, be my guest.”

And there’s that damn charm. I find it as infuriating as I do exhilarating.

Ethan grabs my hand, practically dragging me down the boardwalk. The weathered planks creak under our feet, and the smell of salt water fills the air. Seashell garlands with twinkling blue and green lights decorate the railings. It’s “Florida festive.” Not what I’m used to, but it’s growing on me.

“Where are we going?” I ask, pushing aside the thought of how perfectly our fingers fit together.

“To get our subscribers for the day so you’ll relax and have some fun.”

“What about the dare jar?”

“It’s all up here,” he says, pointing to his head.

I grab him and plant a kiss on his goofy grin. I can’t control it. He’s adorable, and his laid-back vibe is rubbing off on me (and now other things are too) . When he finally pulls away, we’re both breathing hard. A nearby palm tree, wrapped in golden lights, seems to sway from the intensity.

“After this is over, I need more of that,” Ethan groans.

I somehow manage to find my snark. “You want it, you gotta earn it. I don’t give my Christmas cookies away for free.”

Ethan smirks. “Time to put those directing skills to work, boss.” He presses the Go Live button on his phone and hands it to me. Suddenly we’re streaming to thousands of eager fans.

“Hey, Ethan Addicts!” he greets the camera. “Today we’re granting Christmas wishes in real time. If you’re local, come on down to the boardwalk. And if you’re on the livestream, reach out and tell me your wish. Just keep it PG-13, folks. This isn’t Miracle on 69th Street .”

He winks at the lens. “You gotta help me out because Chase said she won’t kiss me until we hit our quota today. I’m dying of thirst over here! Let’s grow those Cherish Channel subscribers!”

Watching him work his magic on screen, something within me shifts. This is Ethan in his element—charming, genuine, and connecting effortlessly with people. For once, I don’t want to critique or micromanage him. Instead, I see possibilities unfolding naturally and spontaneously. Perhaps our dynamic doesn’t have to be all sharp edges and power struggles. Maybe there’s room for both of us to shine, blending his natural charisma with my vision.

What if I don’t have to choose between being respected and being happy?

Ethan pulls off his shirt—his physique, tanned and tone, is on full display. Yowsa! He grabs the Santa hat from his back pocket and puts it on.

Sweet baby Jesus in a manger. He’s the King of Christmas and the king of my fantasies.

Seeing how much the livestream is blowing up, he’s the king of a lot of women’s fantasies—apparently every woman on the planet. Fan after fan approaches Ethan, and when I glance at the phone, very provocative comments are flooding the chat.

Damn ladies! It’s enough to make an OnlyFans model blush. Nothing PG-13 about these wishes.

It’s the reminder I need—to tread lightly. To be realistic. To not fall into the fantasy myself.

This is a fun fling, nothing more. Guys like Ethan don’t end up with girls like me. They want the red-carpet-ready babes, the models with perfect teeth and Instagram-filtered lives. Not some Type-A control freak who guards her feelings like a maximum-security prison.

Ethan is a Hollywood playboy. He loves the attention more than anything or anyone. I, on the other hand, am not used to any of it. Not the public displays of affection, and certainly not Ethan being sweet to me. The snarky, annoying Ethan I know how to handle. This caring, adoring Ethan is messing with my head.

I’m just here for the sex… Shit. Subscribers! I mean subscribers.

Mere minutes later, Ethan’s drawn a crowd. “Who has a wish for me to grant? And no, I can’t make it snow in Florida. I’m magical, but I’m no wizard.”

A pack of teenage girls giggle and raise their hands. “Will you do a TikTok with us?”

“Your Christmas wish is my command,” Ethan says with a grin. “But fair warning, I only have one dance move, which I call the Drunken Reindeer.”

I hold the camera, filming as they teach Ethan the dance. He’s surprisingly good, picking up the moves quickly. It’s all over in two minutes. The girls squeal and thank him profusely.

A teen in the group approaches me, her eyes wide with envy. “You’re so lucky you’re dating Ethan. Is he a good kisser?”

“He’s the best,” I blurt out.

Ethan’s grin widens. He pulls me into a photo with the girls, his hand clasping my waist possessively. Dangerous butterflies gather in my stomach as he moves his thumb sensually over my hip. If he’s trying to start a fire down there, mission accomplished.

“Next dare,” I announce, forcing myself to step away.

For the next hour, Ethan fulfills wish after wish as our subscriber numbers steadily climb. He’s recording personalized video messages, snapping pics for husbands to surprise their wives, signing Christmas cards, and even singing carols.

At one point, he starts juggling ornaments, which goes about as well as you’d expect. One slightly banged-up nutcracker and several broken ornaments later, he gallantly gives up.

My favorite wish comes next. Ethan begins acting out famous scenes from our movies with fans. I’m shocked when I see him remembering his lines perfectly. Then I hear women recite back lines that I’ve written, word for word, and unshed tears fill my eyes. Their reactions show me they love it as much as I do. I can feel how much my movies have touched them. I’ve brought them the warmth of Christmas, just as I’d hoped. My heart cries out with purpose and joy.

One fan even gets a kiss on the cheek, which definitely doesn’t make me jealous. Not at all. I’m not imagining pushing her headfirst off the pier. Nope.

Ethan charms everyone around him, and I’m in awe. He’s so good at this, and it’s not an easy job. To read someone—know how to meet them where they’re at in an instant. To match their expectations and bless them with a moment. Seeing him with his fans is kind of… magical. It’s got the warm, fuzzy feels of Santa, but like if Santa was a hot, flirty sex god in tight jeans.

A group of little old ladies holding grocery bags approaches me. “Can we go next?”

“Of course,” I say, calling out to Ethan. “These lovely gals are coming up.”

Ethan beckons them over. “Hello there, lovelies. Enlighten me… What’s your Christmas wish?”

The most innocent-looking lady of the bunch, possibly a retired kindergarten teacher, says, “We want you to be a human sundae. Extra whipped cream, if you know what I mean.”

I almost drop the phone.

Suddenly the seniors are pulling out different sundae toppings from their bags—hot fudge, caramel, and a spray can of Reddi-wip. I half expect one of them to pull out edible underwear.

Ethan smirks into the phone. “Okay, this is pretty crazy, but since it’s Christmas, I’ll do it. I have one condition. Only if my gal licks it off.”

The roaring crowd loves it as much as I hate it.

“No, no, no,” I protest, but Ethan’s already extending his arms, welcoming the gooey mess.

“Ladies, get pouring!”

The not-so-sweet seniors whoop and cheer, drizzling an excess of pure sin onto Ethan’s broad, muscular chest. The caramel flows down in golden, molten streams, tracing every hard line and curve of his pecs like a lover’s fingertips—like my fingertips. I can’t deny it’s a tantalizing invitation.

Hellz yeah, except for all the bystanders. Hard pass.

My eyes are hypnotized by the hot fudge as it slides down his torso. The sweet, slow lava oozes, thick and dark—a wicked contrast against his tanned skin. It travels its way across the valley of his rippled abs—a slow, sensual tease that causes my breath to hitch and my pulse quicken. The sight of it, decadent and dirty, makes my tongue tingle.

Then comes the whipped cream, sprayed generously from the can, forming soft, fluffy mounds on each nipple, just begging to be licked. It melts slightly against the heat of his skin, a creamy temptation that has me biting my lip and squirming with anticipation.

God, this is embarrassing. Who does this in public? Where’s the shame, people?

But still, the combination of the sinful toppings on his rock-hard body is fucking criminal. It’s a feast for the senses, a playful, erotic promise that has me aching to let my guard down and taste him. Ethan turns to me, his eyes dancing with challenge, a dare testing my resolve.

The crowd cheers. Ethan looks like the world’s sexiest human sweet treat. My face is hotter than a blowtorch. If I blush any harder, I’m going to burst into flames.

Ethan walks up to me, takes the phone, and gives it to a grandmotherly figure to keep filming.

“Okay baby, time to eat your sundae. C’mon. Don’t do it for me. Do it for the subs.”

A tug-of-war brews inside me between my self-respect—my carefully crafted director rep—and the immediate pressure to play the part. I scan the mass of people, thinking about all the subs we still need. He’s right. I asked for this. Not this exactly, but this fake relationship, and whatever comes with it.

I watch the fudge and caramel combo dripping down those abs. Decision made. I smile like I’m not mortified and aroused beyond comprehension.

“You’re gonna like this a lot more than me,” I whisper to Ethan before shouting, “Let’s make this a Christmas to remember!”

I take a deep breath and flick my tongue to his nipple for a little taste test. Then, I begin a long, slow lick from his abs all the way up to his collarbone. Mmm, yummy!

The crowd bursts into cheers and whistles. My face is beet red, and my silly smile takes over my cheeks. I’m feeling ridiculous, wild, daring, and invigorated all at once.

Amidst the excited praises and screams, one of the grannies shouts, “Get it, girl! Now lick those abs like a lollipop!”

“You heard her,” Ethan says. “You coming back for seconds?”

Before I respond, Ethan’s arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I gasp. I’m colliding with his sticky chest, my hands instinctively coming up to brace against his shoulders.

Then his lips are on mine, sweet and sugary like a candy shop exploded in his mouth. The kiss is soft yet demanding, his stubble rough against my skin. I’m talking make-you-forget- your-own-name kind of kissing. The kind that makes you wonder if you’ve been doing it wrong your whole life.

It shouldn’t feel this wonderful. It’s aggravating. I pull him closer, and—

My phone buzzes angrily in my pocket, shattering the moment. I jerk away from Ethan, flushed and breathing hard. The caller ID flashes “Wiley & Riley,” my bosses, and reality comes crashing back.

“I have to take this,” I tell him, putting distance between us.

“Chase Pemberton,” I answer, trying to sound professional, despite my sticky, goopy clothes and the fact that I was just exploring Ethan’s tonsils.

“Excellent work, Chase!” Wiley’s voice crackles through the speaker. “The content you’re producing is pure gold. Stay on track. You’re halfway there.”

I blink. Content? What content?

Then it clicks.

They think I’m the mastermind behind all the viral dares.

Stunts that were entirely Ethan’s ideas.

I almost spill the truth, but then I remember the massive debt from film school and the tiny apartment I can barely afford. I need this job, or I’ll end up directing feel-good ads for adult diapers.

A twinge of guilt hits me, but I squash it.

“Thank you,” I say smoothly. “I am producing results, aren’t I?”

Riley chimes in, “Quite. And then some. Keep this up, Chase, and those ten films are all yours. And as promised, you’ll have your pick of any cast member you want… that we can afford.”

My heart leaps. This is it—exactly what I wanted. It’s everything that I’ve been working for.

“We’ve even started taking meetings with other directors who are willing to work with Ethan,” Wiley adds. “You know, in case he decides to play hardball with his contract.”

The implications of that statement hit me like a bucket of ice water. Other directors? Working with Ethan? My Ethan?

I shake my head. Not my Ethan. Just… Ethan.

“Plus, we found some extra cash in the couch cushions for your ‘Shamrock Shenanigans’ parade scene.”

“Great,” I manage.

“Maintain the effort,” Wiley says. “We’ll see you back in LA after the holidays— if you hit that million-subscriber mark.”

The call ends. I stare at my phone.

“Everything okay?” Ethan asks.

“Couldn’t be better. The network says we’re killing it and to keep up the good work.”

“Fantastic news, babe!”

Ethan pulls me in for another kiss, and I’m filled with regretful longing. I swallow the guilt like a shot of black coffee—bitter, hot, and burning its way down to my stomach.