Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ethan

“Howdy, darlin's!” I flash a wink at the camera, the gateway to my legions of fans. “Today we’re soaking up the sun and the fun at the Barrett Family Jingle Beach Games!”

Behind me, the whole fam is going nuts with cheers. Well, almost everyone. Chase, in her cute, awkward way, misses the cue and shouts a late “Woo!” that makes me want to laugh and smother her with kisses.

“Chase sweetheart, could you grab a dare from the jar and read it out loud?”

She grabs a green slip and says, “Sand-Trapped Merman?”

“Wowie, that’s a good one. If we hit 100 thousand subscribers, this handsome fella— me —will get buried in the sand up to my neck. Then my brother Nolan here can have his fun.”

“Hi, I’m Nolan. I’m his brother,” Nolan states flatly, as if I didn’t just say that verbatim.

“His job is to mold me into a truly embarrassing merman. He’ll be sculpting a skimpy outfit on me with the largest breasts you’ve ever seen. Meanwhile, my lovely assistant Chase will tease my hair into an Ursula-worthy makeover, complete with a hideous seaweed wig. Subscribe now to the Cherish Channel to see if I transform into the mermaid of your dreams… or a warty frogfish with an underbite.”

“Yahoo! Let the games begin!” Mom squeals as I end the livestream.

With business done, I can get back to my favorite family holiday tradition. Every year, we gather on this slice of paradise for some good old-fashioned competition. And trust me, we Barretts are serious about our fun.

We’re decked out in our beach finest—shorts, T-shirts, and bare feet. The weather couldn’t be better. Maybe it’s all this amazing sex I’m having, but the sand is like powder between my toes, the sky is a flawless blue, and the sun’s warmth is just right.

Most days, Chase dresses like she’s headed to a funeral—all black, all the time. But today, she’s switched things up… She’s lighter, more radiant. She’s wearing a breezy tank top in a soft pastel pink, paired with frayed denim shorts that tease with the slightest peek of her ass cheek. The glimpse of her bright-red bikini string under her shirt has me eager to play a game of Peek-a-Boob .

Her hair’s down today, and it’s a bit of a frizzy mess thanks to the humidity. But it’s a gorgeous disaster. Dad always says he’s got beer goggles for Mama because she’s beautiful every second. Now, I get it. It’s not only the way she looks—it’s the way she makes me feel. Every time I look at her, I see something new, something incredible.

I’ve never felt this way about anyone.

I can’t take my eyes off her.

Whoa there. Shut ‘er down and stay focused, buddy. It’s game day.

“This year, I done outdid myself,” Mom announces. “I cooked up a prize that’ll leave ya speechless. Feast your eyes on the Yuletide Flamingo Flickers!”

She presents a pair of obscene pink flip-flops that are a hate crime against fashion, cluttered with flamingos, bows, and tasteless tinsel. And thanks to those obnoxious blinking lights crammed between the toe straps, the winner will definitely shine .

Chase starts snickering, but I quickly cut her off.

“Laugh all you want. You’re not even in the running.”

“Oh Ethan. I have zero interest in the family prize. But destroying you, that’s a game I’ll play to win. You just lit a fire inside me.”

I tilt my head. “A fire that I plan on feeling inside you later tonight.”

“Always so cocky, aren’t you Barrett?”

I plant a quick kiss on her lips before whispering, “There you go again, thinking about my cock.”

“Alright, you two turtledoves, that’s enough!” Mom hollers. “No canoodling with the competition. It’s every man for himself in these games.”

Dad jumps in, looking at Chase. “Ethan’s been the reigning champ for three years. We’d be thrilled if you could knock him off his pedestal. Do whatever it takes.”

Chase sends a playful wink my way, purring, “With pleasure.” The way her tongue caresses that last word sends a jolt straight through me.

Dude, seriously, concentrate!

First up: Frosty the Sandman Sculpt-Off. The goal? Build a snowman out of sand and decorate it with seashells, dead wood, and whatever other beachy bits we can scavenge. Chase was in so much awe that she Googled it, and yeah, it’s a real thing.

The catch? We only get twenty minutes.

Mom yells, “Go,” and Chase is instantly in the zone. I’m knee-deep in sand. My hands move like sand-sculpting ninjas.

Chase is a few feet away, tongue poking out slightly as she concentrates. It’s her directing face but beach-ified. Hair dancing in the breeze. Sand-dusted legs. It hits… different.

My hands are molding my tubby sandman, but my mind is stuck on last night on the boat. I laid it all out there for her, raw and honest in a way I’d never done with anyone. And Chase? She brushed it off with a laugh.

Oof. I’m still cringing.

“Ten minutes left!” Mom shouts.

A rush of panic grips me. Time is running out. And I don’t mean the game… I mean us. Our Christmas vacation is almost over. In a few days, we’ll return to L.A., back like we never left, and whatever this is between Chase and me will be… who knows?

I quickly arrange a row of small shells to form Frosty’s face, stealing glances at Chase. She’s smiling, lost in the moment, clearly not on the same emotional rollercoaster. Obviously not feeling what I am, because for me…

I’m falling for her, hard and fast.

“Are you ready to be outshone by an actual artist,” Chase says smugly.

“Ha. How about you surrender, and I won’t say I told you so?” I chuckle.

“Not today, pretty boy. You’re about to get schooled. I’m turning this lumpy potato into a work of art.”

She throws me a wink that makes my heart do a little flip.

Why did I go and make things so complicated? This woman’s job is literally to yell “Cut!” on my life. She’s the director, calling the shots and deciding when a scene—or a moment—is over.

How can I go back to normal? Acting is one thing, but pretending my heart doesn’t race every time she calls “Action!” is another.

I’ve gone and screwed myself, in the most cliché Hollywood way. I’ve seen fellow actors blur lines with film producers and execs, and they usually crash and burn. Which means this most definitely ends with my career in the toilet, probably landing a gig in commercials for erectile dysfunction meds—if I’m lucky.

Side effects may include a recurring kicking sensation to your emotional groin while spontaneously bursting into tears.

“Five minutes!”

Crap. Five minutes till it’s game over. NO! Five days left in Florida. Only five days?!

I watch Chase frantically trying to give her sandman a seaweed toupee. It’s hilarious. The look of pure joy on her face makes my soul sing. And I realize something.

I’d gladly hawk dick pills for the rest of my life if it meant seeing that smile every day.

“Time’s up!” Dad calls out.

I sneak a peek at Chase’s sandman—more blobfish than snowman. It’s not bad, maybe even adorable if you squint, but my sand-sculpting genius stands as a granular masterpiece. I’ve given him a strong chin and a six-pack made of seashells that are making seagulls swoon mid-flight.

“Wow, Ethan, that’s amazing,” Chase says. “Seriously, you should totally get a picture for social media. Toss me your phone.”

Victory surges through me like I’ve just bagged an Oscar or, more realistically, like I’ve found that sweet parking spot in Hollywood on a Friday night. I grin, hands on my hips, and strike a pose next to my pudgy snowman.

Chase backs up, framing the shot.

“Can you take a step to the left?” she directs. “Almost, scoochie a little more… Okay, one more baby step.”

And then, because I’m a fool who’s too busy channeling my inner Zoolander “Blue Steel,” I step right onto my carefully crafted creation. Within seconds, my snowman crumbles, reducing it to a sad, damp pile of sand.

I whirl around to confront Chase, who’s wearing an angelic expression that’s so mock innocent, a blind man could see through it. But with those flirty, twinkling eyes, no way can I be mad.

“You little cheater,” I accuse. “You’re gonna pay for that!”

Before she can react, I lunge forward and scoop her up, tossing her over my shoulder like a sack of presents. She shrieks with laughter as I charge towards the ocean.

“No, Stop! I don’t want to get wet!” Chase squeals, pounding her fists ineffectually against my back.

“Do you promise to play nice and stop with the tricks?” I demand, wading deeper into the cool water.

“Yes!” she gasps between giggles. “I promise!”

I ease her gently into the calf-deep water, but her hands stay firmly on my shoulders like I’m her anchor. She tilts her chin up, and I’m drowning in those eyes.

Time slows, the world narrows, and it’s just us—toes in sand with the ocean lapping against our legs. The sound of the waves and my family’s laughter on the beach becomes background noise. It’s Chase and me, standing in the shallows, on the brink of… something.

What if I told her?

What if I was completely honest and held nothing back.

Hey Chase, I’m falling hard for you. Let's give this a shot when we’re back in L.A.?

Before I can bare my soul, Chase’s face sparkles with mischief. Quick as a flash, she holds up her hand, revealing crossed fingers.

“Fooled ya, sucker! I cheat to win. Race ya back!”

She sprints out of the ocean, leaving me floundering in her wake. I’m so baffled by this intriguing woman. One minute she’s ice, the next she’s fire. All in or all out—no in-between. Today, she’s clearly chosen “all in” on our little competition.

I’ve got to come out on top, show her I can match her stride for stride. Maybe if I prove myself her equal, she’ll finally hear what my heart’s been screaming.

The next few games turn into a fierce competition of cleverness and charm. She won the snowman-building round, but I crushed her dreams (and the ball) in beach volleyball.

The Reindeer Ring Toss had us neck and neck until she pulled out her secret weapon. Chase flashed her tits, and I missed my last throw by a mile.

She was on her way to surefire victory in “Candy Cane Fishing.” As she reeled in what should have been her winning catch, I struck. My hand found her ass, giving it a firm squeeze. Her startled yelp was music to my ears as she lost her balance.

I’m not above fighting dirty. After all, she started it.

The Polar Express Sprint—the final showdown. We’re lined up on the sandy shore, adrenaline pumping and our game faces on. The finish line taunts us from waaay down the beach. Nolan, our supposed impartial judge, stands ready.

I scan the faces of my family, searching for a hint of support.

“Chase, sweetie,” Mom says, her voice syrupy sweet, “you’ve played your little heart out today, haven’t you? We are all rooting for you.”

“Mama?” I protest. “What about me? Your flesh and blood?”

“Ethan, hun, give it a rest. No one wants you winning again. Besides, I think you’ve met your match.”

“Don’t worry, son,” Dad chimes in. “You have our love. But I must admit, I’ll enjoy seeing you finish second.”

My last hope is my brother. I spot him down the shore, arms spread wide. Perfect. I flash him our secret twin signal for “Bro, I need you.”

Nolan hollers back, “Go Chase!”

Chase bumps my shoulder, her grin wicked. “Sorry, not sorry, but I guess they like me more."

“I hate to disappoint everyone,” I declare, “but those flip-flops are mine!”

Mom raises her arms, ready to start. “Racers, line up!”

Chase and I stand side-by side, our toes pressed into the sandy ground. In the distance, Nolan waves to signal he’s ready.

I stare Chase down, taking one last chance to trash talk her. “No shame in losing to the king, newbie. I’m the champ. Fast, experienced, and unbeatable in the sand.”

“Maybe speed isn’t the key. Strategy is.”

“It’s running—that’s all about speed.”

Determination sets in. My heart races. Muscles primed and ready. Let’s do this.

“On your mark,” Mom calls out. “Get set...”

“Prepare to cry into your pillow tonight, darlin’. Losing is gonna be a tough pill to swallow.”

Chase leans close and whispers in my ear, “Oh I’ll swallow alright, when I let you fuck my mouth tonight.”

“GO!”

Her words hit me like a hurricane, and she’s off.

Sand flies, her legs pumping, tearing up the beach. My brain’s spinning, feet suddenly useless. I stumble forward, still dazed, and face-plant into the warm sand, getting a mouthful of Marco Island’s finest.

I scramble to my feet, spitting out grit, but Chase is halfway down the sandy stretch. She crosses the finish line, arms raised in triumph, a solid three seconds ahead of my second-place finish.

My family of backstabbers cheers her victory.

I sweep her into my arms and kiss her, knowing without a doubt that she’s the prize I truly want.

***

The damp sand molds to our feet, cool and velvety, as Chase and I walk along the shore. Our fingers are entwined, swinging gently back and forth, a silent expression of our affection. With each step, a shiver runs up my spine. I wonder if it’s the rhythm of the waves or Chase’s magnetic presence causing this sensation.

Our third wheel—Bubbles—waddles beside us on his leash. He eyes a seagull like it’s the last hot dog at a Fourth of July barbecue.

“Bubbles, no,” I mutter, giving his leash a tug.

He shoots me a look that says, You’re not my real dad , but thankfully decides the bird isn’t on today’s menu.

I am constantly drawn to Chase, my eyes taking in both her physical beauty and the subtle changes in her expression. She’s relaxed, happy… comfortable in her own skin. I’m getting to see the woman behind the director’s chair, the Chase, who isn’t afraid to be a little silly and a little vulnerable.

Am I the only person who sees this softer side of her?

But I can’t shake the feeling that once this trip is over, I’ll be nothing but a passing moment in her life.

“I see you side-eyeing my flamingo flip-flops,” Chase teases, catching me staring. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

“Player?” I scoff. “You’re a dirty, dirty cheater. Filthy promises were made. I expect you to keep them.”

“Oh, I meant what I said,” she quips with a smirk before turning her gaze back to the water. “Ethan, look! Dolphins!” Chase shouts, her eyes lighting up with childlike wonder.

I pull her close, her back against my chest, and wrap my arms firmly around her waist. Resting my head on her shoulder, we watch two dolphins play together, jumping in and out of the waves.

I hold her tight, the moment expressing what words cannot. I’m hoping she can sense the depth of my feelings through my embrace.

“Come on, lovebugs. It’s picture time!” My mom’s voice cuts through the ocean sound, and our time is up.

We trudge up the sandy shore to join the family. My mom is jumping with excitement. “Okay, Barrett family! Who’s ready for this year’s photo theme?”

We give a halfhearted cheer, and I nudge Chase to join in.

Mom’s not satisfied. “Y’all can do better than that. Who wants to hear this year’s theme?”

Chase, bless her heart, really gets into it this time, cheering the loudest, which makes my mom smile.

“Dougie darlin’, drum roll, please,” Mom says.

Dad obliges, performing high-spirited tapping on his belly.

“This year,” Mom announces with flair, “we will be… an ’80s glam metal band!”

I stifle a groan.

“I’ve got costumes and wigs and blow-up guitars. Go get dressed!”

Chase shifts into director mode. “Darla, I’d be glad to snap the photo. Just share your vision with me, and I’ll bring it to life.”

Mom waves her off. “We’ve got a camera timer for that, hun. Besides, you can’t take the picture. I want you to be in it.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t impose on your family Christmas card photo,” Chase protests.

“Sweetie, you were the inspiration! There was a whole other theme chosen, but when I saw your hair, it hit me!” Mom beams at Chase. “I didn’t get you a wig ’cause you’re already good to go.”

I let out a snort-chuckle. Chase’s frizz-bomb hair has grown wilder and wilder throughout the day. It’s looking especially windswept from our beach walk, so yeah, rockstar perfection.

Mom addresses me. “You, mister, you’re a curly redhead today. And I better see matching red lipstick.”

“You got it, Mama,” I say, knowing full well I’m about to regret this.

Right as I’m getting ready to “spiffy up,” I notice Chase looking overwhelmed. “You okay?”

She nods, a bit too quickly. “Yeah, uh, yes, totally fine.” Then she adds with a shrug, “Guess I better go try to shimmy into this spandex. Hopefully I can rid myself of the sand that’s been living rent-free in my butt crack.”

I can tell something’s off—her eyes are clouded and her smile isn’t genuine. I’ve learned that when she’s like this, her walls are up and there’s no getting past them. She hates it when I pry, no matter how much I want her to trust me.

But does she trust anyone, really?

So many times I’ve seen her on set, fixing things that weren’t her job. When problems pop up, she’s the first to jump in. She’s the last to leave, making sure everything is perfectly in place.

I may jokingly call her a control freak, but now I’m wondering if there’s more to it.

What if it’s not about control? Maybe she believes she can’t ever trust anyone else and that she has to take care of everything herself.

How can I show her that she can rely on me?

A short while later, my family stands in front of a Christmas tree set up and decorated along the beachfront. The sun is starting to set, and the timing couldn’t be more perfect. It’s a stunning backdrop for our photo.

Mom applies extra makeup to all of us, glamming us up so we get her vision just right. She, of course, looks like Dee Snider. Her bleach-blonde hair is teased out so high, I’m afraid a gust of wind might send her flying.

“Now everyone hold your blow-up guitars,” Mom instructs. “Except you, Doug. How ‘bout you hold Bubbles like he’s a guitar? Ain’t that funny?”

We all strike our best rock ‘n’ roll poses as Mom sets the timer on the camera. “Okay, family, say ‘Candy canes’!”

We repeat the phrase in unison, and with a click, the moment is immortalized forever. Mom runs over to check the photo then squeals with delight.

DING!

My phone chirps, and a pit forms in my stomach as I check the notification. Shit. This isn’t good.

“Oh, man. We didn’t reach our subscriber quota for today,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

Chase’s head whips around. “Wait, what? Are you sure?” She fumbles for her phone, her eyes growing wide as she checks the numbers. “We only got half?!”

I can see the unease building in her eyes. “Trust me. It’ll be okay. I’m gonna go live real quick and tell the fans what happened.”

“Sure,” Chase says, nodding in a daze.

I turn the camera away from her and start my livestream. “Hey, Ethan Addicts, sorry to report that we missed our goal for today. That means you don’t get to see me looking like a whacked-out merman and I don’t have to rinse sand out of my ass for three days. Your loss, but my win.”

As I scan the comments, I spot a familiar name pop up. Gail, my self-proclaimed number-one fan and president of the Ethan Addicts fan club. She’s requesting to join the livestream.

My finger hovers over the Accept button. Might help lighten the mood?

I press the button, and suddenly Gail’s face joins mine in the split-screen frame. She’s draped in a deep-purple satin robe that highlights her bright-red hair. Full makeup, of course, and she’s angled the camera just so, giving everyone watching the live a generous view of her cleavage.

“Oh hey, Gail,” I say, aiming for casual while my brain screams, Abort! Abort!

Gail’s face lights up. “Ethan, baby!” she coos. “You look absolutely scrumptious today. That tan is everything .”

I force a laugh, suddenly very aware of Chase’s presence just off-camera. “Thanks, Gail. It’s that Florida sun working its magic.”

Gail shifts closer to the camera, offering a view that would make a Victoria’s Secret model embarrassed. “I was about to take a nice, long bubble bath. While thinking of you, of course, you naughty boy. Care to join me?”

I’m about to stammer out a response, when Chase’s face appears in the frame, her smile sharp as a razor. “Sorry, Gail, but Ethan’s bath time is booked solid. Maybe try again in, oh, never?”

Gail’s eyes narrow, her simpering smile morphing into something closer to a snarl. “Well hello, Chase . I didn’t realize you were there. Though I suppose I should have. You’re always there, aren’t you?”

“Occupational hazard of being Ethan’s girlfriend,” Chase replies sweetly. “You know how it is… Oh, wait—you don’t.”

The comments section explodes into chaos, Team Gail and Team Chase fans fighting like they’re in a virtual wrestling ring. The viewer count skyrockets.

Gail sneers. “Why don’t you take a hint and realize that everyone is bored with your so-called ‘relationship.’ That’s why you didn’t hit your subscriber goal. It’s pathetic.”

Chase grabs the phone. “Or maybe, Gail, you’re salty because the only action you get is from your vibrator.”

Shit. Did she just say that?

Gail’s face turns as red as her hair, resembling a tomato in a microwave that’s about to explode. “Excuse me?” she sputters, her eyes flashing. “I’ll have you know that I have a very active love life.”

“You wish,” Chase scoffs. “The most thrilling thing you’ll do tonight is dry humping your Ethan body pillow.”

I clear my throat, trying to slice through the tension. “Ladies, let’s not—”

But they’re not listening to me. They’re too busy glaring at each other through their screens.

“You don’t know the first thing about what Ethan needs,” Gail hisses.

“And you do?” Chase fires back. “Because you’ve watched his movies a hundred times and have a shrine in your closet?”

“I do not have a shrine!” Gail protests, but her eyes dart to the side, and I have a sinking feeling that she’s lying.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I say, finally finding my voice. “Gail, thank you for joining us, but I think it’s time to—”

“No, Ethan,” Gail interrupts, her voice suddenly sweet. “You shouldn’t defend her. We all know she’s using you to boost her career.”

Chase lets out a laugh that sounds more like a growl. “Using him? Ha! That’s rich coming from you, Miss ‘I Run a Fan Club Just to Get Close to Ethan.’”

I grab back my phone. “Alright,” I say firmly. “Gail, thanks for joining, but we’ve got to go. Chase and I have… uh… lines to practice.”

“But Ethan—” Gail starts to protest.

“That’s a wrap on this livestream. Thanks for being here, Ethan Addicts!” I press down hard on the End Stream button.

Silence crashes over us.

Chase is a statue of rage beside me, jaw clenched and eyes blazing.

Fuck! That was a disaster of epic proportions. Rule number one of social media: Don’t pick fights on the internet.