Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Chase

I now know why he’s called the King of Christmas—because Ethan’s dick is magic.

Last night, after everyone had gone to bed, I made good on my promise. Giving blowjobs isn’t usually my favorite thing—like, why have a dick in your mouth when you could be devouring a burrito? But holy fucking shit, Ethan's love wand is next-level. I took my time, teasing him to the edge and then pulling away, savoring his cock like it was the last lollipop on Earth.

My tongue teased his engorged tip, licking until he begged for release. I drew out strange, wonderful sounds from his core—guttural moans of pleasure mixed with soft whimpers and sharp, surprised exhales. I reveled in making his entire body tense and tremble. It was such a fucking turn-on to know that I was the one causing his exquisite torture, his delicious undoing.

It felt so dirty and selfish to wield all that power over him—to control how and when he breathed, to make his muscles strain at my command. And just when he thought I couldn’t squeeze out any more dirty fun, I opened wider and deep-throated his giant throbbing length until he was screaming uncontrollably into his pillow, “Fuck, Chase. Fuck!” He came so hard down my throat that I’m still grinning like the Grinch when he steals Christmas.

I’ve never done anything so filthy and fantastic.

And I’m craving a replay.

Those poor SpongeBob sheets have seen some things the past few days, and I’m not sure they’ll ever recover.

I thought Ethan was spent after the experience. The way he lay there, his arm draped over his eyes—his whole body relishing the moment. I kissed him goodnight and snuggled up to him, ready to drift off.

“Not a chance, darlin’.” He chuckled, propping himself up on one elbow. “Sleep? We’re not even close to the finish line. Not until you’re throughly satisfied.”

The mere memory of his words has my clit pulsing, eager to obey.

Ethan camped out down there like he was at a cozy cabin retreat, giving my lady garden a luxurious, never-ending spa day. The slow, deliberate flicks of his tongue on my sweet spot, how he groaned against my pussy, and the million vibrations coursing through me…

He was unhinged, driven to prove how masterfully he could command my body. And he’s right. My whole being molded to his hands, formed to his touch, and surrendered completely to his will.

And fuck me, don’t even get me started on the orgasms, because they kept coming and coming. They didn’t just leave my thighs quivering. No, even my soul trembled like a goddamn jackhammer.

Ethan can summon climaxes—the man is the Pied Piper of pussy.

It’s a dance of desire and dominance.

And that scares the ever-loving shit out of me.

But I can’t go there right now. Time to quiet the buzzing in my lady bits and get these merch orders filled.

Darla’s craft store is so packed with fans today, there’s a line out the door. I wish I could stop thinking about you-know-who, but everything I touch in here is covered in Ethan’s face, the very same face I sat on last night.

I shove another Chathan shirt into a box. Nolan’s voice drones on in the background, a monotonous hum about labeling and address verification. We have over a thousand online orders to fill, and the last hour has been a long, mind-numbing loop.

“…and then we double-check the zip code to ensure—”

“Right, because checking once is for amateurs,” I mutter, no longer hiding my sarcasm. Meanwhile, my traitorous gaze is playing a twisted game of hide and seek. It drifts across the crowded store, magnetically drawn to the one person I’m trying desperately to ignore.

Ethan.

He’s in his element, a golden retriever in human form, all easy smiles and effortless charm. He’s like a one-man boy band—taking selfies and signing autographs. Everyone within a ten-foot radius is falling head over heels for him.

Flirtation is his superpower, activated by the merest hint of a grin. The man oozes charm as if he’s been honing this skill since birth. And that’s the problem—this comes far too naturally to him. His effortless allure? It’s nothing more than a carefully crafted performance.

Ethan glances over, catching me staring. He winks, and I swallow hard. There’s no stopping the warmth spreading through my chest like wildfire.

The way he looks at me. The things he says. He’s so convincing, it almost feels real.

Stop it, Chase! This is nothing more than a fake relationship with benefits. A carefully orchestrated PR stunt to boost our subscriber count. Casual sex is how we LA people operate. No big deal, just killing time between livestreams.

But seriously? How did I go from wanting to superglue Ethan’s lips shut to wanting them wide open and all over me? Hooking up? Never crossed my mind.

Fine, I’ll come clean. Maybe I’ve had a dirty thought or two (or ten) about him over the years. But I’d rather eat glass than admit that out loud.

It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like we’re gonna live happily ever after. He’ll go back to chasing supermodels and Hollywood ‘it’ girls.

What if I did desire something genuine? To be treasured and adored by him, not just another conquest. To be the only name tattooed on his heart. To be each other’s… person.

The truth is, Ethan isn’t relationship material, even if I did want that.

As if he can hear my thoughts, Ethan saunters over and pulls me in for a kiss so intense it leaves me lightheaded. His mouth is warm against mine, his arms strong and secure around my waist. The store erupts in a chorus of “awws” and for once I don’t shy away from the attention.

“Isn’t my girlfriend adorable?” Ethan asks the crowd.

Another performance for the public. He knows exactly how to make it feel sincere, because it’s his job to convince all women to believe in the fantasy… Apparently that includes me.

He’s a much better actor than I give him credit for.

I paste on a smile, playing my part. “Are you just kissing me to get out of helping with orders?”

Ethan smirks. “Is it that obvious?”

I’m about to respond when Darla’s chipper voice cuts through the air. “Ladies, we got a brand-new batch of Chathan shirts in flamingo pink! If you buy yours now, Ethan and Chase will sign them!”

I gotta hand it to Darla. That woman pounces on trends faster than a cat on a mouse.

The crowd surges forward like they’re racing to an all-you-can-eat hottie buffet, but Ethan’s focus is on me. He holds me tight, his fingers tracing the gentle features of my face, and it makes my heart flutter.

“Hey,” I whisper. “We need to talk about Gail.”

Ethan’s gaze doesn’t falter. “What about her?” he says. “The online meltdown thing? Meh, it’s fine.”

“You’ve seen it? And you’re not worried?”

He shrugs. “It’ll blow over, Chase. Fans get upset, they vent, they move on. It’s the circle of celebrity life.”

“This is serious. Look at what she’s posting!” I shove my phone at him, scrolling through Gail’s “Ethan Addicts” fan page feed.

Wake up, Ethan Addicts! Your beloved star and his stone-cold director are nothing but Hollywood smoke and mirrors. #CHATHANisFake

Calling for a boycott: Forget the countdown to Christmas. This year, let’s all #CountdownToCHATHANBreakup

Betting pool: How long before that shady witch Chase dumps Ethan? I’m betting on Christmas Eve for maximum drama. #CHATHANisOver

Ethan’s smile finally wavers. “Ouch. But hey, give yourself some credit. She’s implying you’re doing the dumping and not me. That’s something, right?”

I ignore his attempt at humor. “There’s more. Look at this thread she started, breaking down every interaction we’ve had on camera. She’s got screenshots, body language analysis, the works.”

“Wow… When Gail commits to something, she really commits.”

“This isn’t funny,” I snap. “We didn’t hit our subscriber goal yesterday, and today’s looking even worse. All our hard work could go down the drain because I told her the only action she gets is from her vibrator and her creepy Ethan-shaped body pillow.”

“You played the jealous girlfriend part pretty well. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were actually jealous.”

Ethan falls silent for a moment, his gaze shifting from the phone to my face, those eyes of his searching, probing. Like he wants to tell me something, but the words fail him.

Darla’s spunky voice interrupts. “Ethan! Chase! The shirts are ready for signing. We’ve got a line of fans waiting. Y’all better get a move on!”

“Coming, Mama!” His mouth finds mine, gentle but insistent. “Stop worrying about the subscribers. I’ve got this—I’ve got you.”

We work our way to the autograph table together, hands entwined. For the first time in my career, the lines between fiction and reality are blurring. This whole thing is spiraling out of control. I’m losing grip on what’s real and what’s part of the act.

I’ve always been the one behind the scenes, the one calling the shots. But with Ethan, I feel like I am no longer in command. And that fucking terrifies me.

Unlike the movies I write, I have no idea how this story ends.

***

“This is my house. I have to defend it!” Ethan declares, striking a heroic pose.

I’m perched on the edge of the couch next to Darla, watching the Barrett men act out scenes from Home Alone . Apparently, this is another cherished family tradition.

Doug and Nolan are playing the Wet Bandits , chasing Ethan around the living room performing the movie’s pranks. They’re slipping, sliding, and fake-punching with the coordination of drunken sorority girls playing a game of Twister blindfolded.

Darla squeals and claps her hands when Nolan takes a dramatic tumble, pretending to be smacked in the face. The whole scene is utterly ridiculous and my cheeks ache from laughing.

I haven’t smiled this much since… well, ever .

Somehow, the Barretts managed to sneak past my defenses, winning me over with their joy and endless love. It’s surprising how genuine my fake boyfriend’s family feels—as if I truly belong with them.

“I gotta get home to Kevin!” Darla leaps up, shouting the line with more gusto than a cheerleader captain. “I’ll do whatever it takes!”

The movie always seemed like pure nonsense to me. What kind of mom forgets her kid and then flies halfway around the world to get back to him? The Darla type, that’s who.

The bandits finally corner Ethan, which is my cue. I’ve been given the prestigious role of the creepy old neighbor.

Armed with a throw pillow instead of a snow shovel, I sneak up behind Doug and Nolan.

WHACK! WHACK!

My pillow connects, and they collapse to the ground like they’ve been hit with tranquilizer darts.

Well played, gents.

Ethan whirls around. “My hero!” he exclaims, giving me a big, theatrical kiss.

I can taste the hint of peppermint from the candy canes he’s been munching on all night. His lips are so fucking juicy. I can’t resist pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.

This is fake, this is fake, this is fucking fake , I chant internally, battling against the riot my nerves are staging. My skin sizzles like I’ve been struck by lightning, every cell crying out for more.

It's no big deal. He’s enjoying a bit of fun, and so am I.

“Hey, that’s not how the movie goes,” I protest weakly.

A devilish grin appears on his face. “Right, cuz that’d be weird, huh? My bad. Back to one!”

I think “Kevin” is going to kiss me again, but instead he turns to the others, waving his arms like an overzealous traffic cop. “From the top, people! The director said she wants to see more authenticity. That means less improv from you, Dad.”

Doug pops up from the floor, looking way too excited for a grown man playing make-believe. “Great notes, Chase. I’d like a do-over for my hair-on-fire scene. I felt like I was phoning it in.”

“Alright, boys,” Darla chirps. “You keep defending the house. Chase and I are gonna whip up some sugar, spice, and nicey-nice in the kitchen.”

I trail after her, still buzzing from that kiss. I bet she’s seen enough tonsil hockey to qualify as a referee by now. Just another Tuesday when your son is America’s favorite man candy, leaving a trail of swooning women in his wake.

The second we’re in the doorway, Darla is a whirlwind of activity, whipping out bowls and ingredients. “So, Chase, what do you cook up for the holidays?”

I freeze, feeling like I’ve been asked to perform brain surgery with a spork. “Oh, um… my family doesn’t really have special recipes. We didn’t celebrate much when I was growing up.”

“Well, butter my biscuit and call me Sally! We’re gonna fix that faster than you can say ‘food porn!'”

She whips out a recipe box that looks like it survived the sixties, stuffed with cards in more colors than a bag of Skittles. She selects one and hands it to me with a flourish. “Ethan loves this. It’s his favorite. My nanna’s special rum cake.”

She leans in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell a soul, but the secret is the eggs. Always double ‘em up. That’s what gives it that nice gooey pudding texture.”

She acts like she’s just handed me her entire VHS collection of Jane Fonda exercise tapes and is trusting me to not loan them out. I nod solemnly.

As we gather ingredients, Darla narrates the complete Barrett family history, complete with footnotes and a dramatic reenactment. “Now, Nanna Clark was sweeter than pie, but this recipe? It’s from Nanna Wilson. That old battle-axe had a tongue sharper than a porcupine’s backside and a heart colder than a witch’s tit. Tough as nails, that one. Kinda like you, sweet pea. But ya know, ain’t her fault. She had a real hard life, and that changes a person.”

I blink, not sure if I should be flattered or offended. Am I the bitter old broad or the witch with the droopy frozen tatas?

Is this what it would have been like?

Would my own mother have shared secret family recipes passed down through generations? Would she have pulled me close, her eyes sparkling with joy as she shared something special, like Darla does? Would our kitchen have been filled with the scent of vanilla and love instead of takeout and silence?

Darla hands over a festive apron covered in flamingos, giggling about Ethan’s attempt to ‘improve’ the recipe with a heavy pour of rum. But I’m trapped in that treacherous zone between past and present, where memories I’ve spent years evading are suddenly nipping at my heels.

My mother’s absence is an open wound, painstakingly covered with professional success, personal achievements, and a firm policy of keeping others at bay. But here’s Darla, humming Christmas carols and teaching me family secrets like I belong here. As if I’m worthy of being someone’s daughter. It hurts. Oh God, it hurts. Like pressing on a bruise you forgot you had.

“So, what can I do to help?”

“You measure, I’ll pour.”

“Sounds good,” I agree, relieved to have a task to focus on.

As we work, Darla chatters away. “Lordy, I’m tickled you’re here! Having another gal in the house is a treat. I love my boys, but I’ve always wanted a daughter. Don’t you tell ‘em, but I’ve also been prayin’ for some grandbaby girls. Then you came along.” She winks.

Guilt washes over me like a tidal wave. I suddenly understand why Ethan insisted we lie to his parents. It would crush his mom, knowing our relationship is as fake as the plastic Christmas palm tree in their living room.

Elbow-deep in eggy batter, the words slip out before I realize it. “So, I’m guessing Ethan’s brought home his fair share of holiday arm candy?”

“Shucks, hun, you’re the first girl Ethan’s ever had us meet. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I was kinda surprised it was you.”

I nearly drop the egg I’m holding. “Never?”

“I swear on my mama’s sweet tea, I ain’t lyin’.”

My brain’s still buffering from that bombshell when Darla launches an attack on the bundt pan with enough cooking spray to lubricate a jet engine.

“That boy of mine, he calls every week, regular as rain. We do this FaceTime game night on Sundays. But ever since he started working with you? He’s been more uptight than a nun in a cucumber patch. We helped him practice his lines instead of our usual shenanigans.”

I’m flabbergasted. Ethan? Rehearsing lines? Yeah, right. Memorizing is against his religion. He’s more likely to give up sex.

“That boy wanted to impress you somethin’ fierce,” Darla continues, oblivious to my befuddled expression. “He would go on and on about how he couldn’t believe someone as talented as you chose him. Like you were in a different league in Hollywood. You make him feel special.”

“You’re shitting me,” I blurt out.

“I shit you not, buttercup.” Darla grins. “I think Ethan’s got a bit of that, what’s it called, imposter syndrome when it comes to you.”

She takes the bowl and dumps the mixture into the pan. My mind’s running in place, like it’s on a hamster wheel, trying to process this info dump. Ethan? Mr. I’m God’s Gift to Cinema, having self-doubt? No way.

“I see why he was so torn up now,” Darla says with a knowing smile. “That boy has love written all over his face. He’s just like his daddy. He can’t hide it.”

Before I can respond—or have the panic attack that’s bubbling up faster than this cake batter—she changes subjects. “Alrighty, time for the fun part. Watch and learn, sugar.”

She swipes a finger through the creamy mix and pops it into her mouth with a full-bodied moan. “Now you try,” she commands.

I take a lick. Holy mother of mouthgasms. How can sugar and eggs hit so hard?

“Damn, that’s good,” I admit, wondering if it’s impolite to dive face-first into the bowl.

“Wait till we drown this sucker in boozy glaze. You’ll be seeing God and calling him Daddy .”

She shoves the three and a half metric tons of calories into the oven. “While that’s baking, I got you a little something.”

Darla leads me to the dining room and settles me at the table, presenting me with a beautifully wrapped package.

“Really, this isn’t necessary. You shouldn’t get me anything.”

“Technically, I didn’t ‘get’ it. I made this for you.”

I open the gift, revealing a handcrafted seashell frame with a picture inside. The photograph features the entire Barrett clan and me dressed in full 80s rock glory—posing on the sand and making ridiculous faces. It’s simultaneously the most absurd and endearing thing I’ve ever seen.

“You hold a special place in Ethan’s heart,” Darla says softly, “and that makes you incredibly important to me. You’re part of the family now.”

I want to… cry? Scream? Go back in time? I don’t know.

Darla pulls me into a hug that threatens to squeeze the cynicism right out of me. As I sit there, enveloped in her warmth and the scent of rum cake, I feel something inside me start to crumble.

After she finally releases me, I can’t stop staring at the image, a lump forming in my throat the size of my emotional baggage.

“Maybe next year we can dress up as Dolly Parton through the decades,” I say, surprising myself.

Her face lights up, a blazing supernova of pure joy. “You wanna plan the photo with me? Now that’s a dream come true!”

My stomach sinks with an anchor of regret.

What am I doing?

This isn’t real. I’m not part of this family.

Hell, I’m not even Ethan’s girlfriend.

I don’t belong here.