Page 1 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER ONE

Chase

“Listen up!”I shout through my megaphone. “This shot happens before lunch, or say goodbye to your holiday plans. And since Hollywood's class clown can't stay focused for more than thirty seconds—” I lock eyes with Ethan, who has the audacity to wink at me, “—you know exactly who to blame.”

The crew scatters like cockroaches, actors reset, and in seconds, the soundstage is a picture-perfect cozy Irish pub again. Green explodes everywhere, like the Hulk sneezed on Saint Patrick’s Day. Streamers, shamrocks, and pots of gold—it’s precisely what I envisioned when I wrote the script.

My assistant Taylor materializes at my side, blondie on a mission. Eyes like lasers. Clipboard of doom in hand and looking like she could organize chaos itself.

“Chase, it’s only twenty minutes until the mandatory lunch break. We can’t afford another penalty and—”

“I know. See this pulsating vein in my forehead? It’s doing a fabulous job reminding me just how late we’re running.”

Taylor’s eyes soften. “If you keep scowling like that, you’ll have wrinkles before you’re thirty-three.”

I feel my shoulders relax slightly. “Shit. Point taken. I’ll try to relax. You’re my lifesaver, Taylor. Have I told you today what a total badass you are?”

She grins. “Someone’s gotta keep the directing queen sane in this circus.”

“Not even I can control our resident pretty-boy star,” I grumble, feeling my stress levels skyrocket at the mere thought of him.

My gaze darts across the set, searching for my leading man. And there he is—not at his mark, not running lines, instead he’s turning the craft services table into his personal fan club. Ethan Barrett, six feet of pure frustration, surrounded by a swarm of adoring female PAs. They’re hanging on his every word, laughing at his jokes, and practically melting every time he flashes that annoyingly cocky grin.

“Ethan! For the love of fucking leprechauns, GET READY for this take!”

“I’vebeenready, Chase. If you want to blame me, be my guest. But we both know you love riding my ass.”

“If you could stay focused, maybe I wouldn’t have to ride you so hard.”

Shit. That came out wrong.

His grin widens. “You want to take me for a ride? Just say the word. I promise you won’t regret it.”

I walked right into that one.

“Gah! GET ON SET!”

Ethan Barrett, leading man? Hardly. More like leadingman-child, wrapped up in an infuriatingly irresistible package. His wavy, light-brown hair is expertly styled. He has mesmerizing blue eyes and endless muscles that are perfectly sculpted to drive the opposite sex crazy. Every woman he meets falls under his spell, each wondering if she could be the one to tame his wild, exasperating heart. I cast him for precisely that reason, and yeah… he knows it.

His smile is smug—and his ego? Well, that’s a package deal. His so-called charm might fool his legions of devoted fans, but not me. Ethan Barrett is an agent of chaos. He cares more about goofing off on set and posting selfies on social media than he does about memorizing his damn lines.

The Hollywood rumor mill has it right: We’re not BFFs. In fact, every film we work on only intensifies our mutual dislike for each other.

He’s the reason I’m consuming Tums like daily vitamins.

When I’m writing a script, I visualize it. I picture exactly where people stand, what they should say, and how everything will flow to make the audience laugh, cry, and swoon. But Ethan and his antics challenge that vision every freaking day.

He’s like a Ken doll come to life that I wish would turn back into plastic.

Why, oh why am I stuck with him?Oh yeah, because unfortunately, our first Christmas movie together was a massive hit—so much so that the studio suits demanded he star ineveryfilm I’ve written since. Talk about your holiday curse.

I scrutinize the monitor, evaluating the scene. Ethan stands behind the bar, all broad shoulders, powerful jaw, and cocky grin. He looks undeniably hot in his red plaid flannel as he holds that bottle of tequila, but something’s not quite right.

“Ethan, roll back your sleeves,” I call out.

He lazily pushes the fabric up his forearms, revealing tanned skin and a hint of a tattoo. “How’s that, Miss Perfectionist? Like what you see?”

I stride over, frustration bubbling up. “Pretty half-ass, even for you. Just… let me do it.”

---