Page 2 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

I clutch his muscular arm, fantasizing about strangling him with his shirt. Methodically I fold back the sleeve in a neat, even roll.He could never.

Ethan watches me with an insufferable smirk, his breath tickling my ear as he angles toward me. “You know, Chase, if you wanna grope me, you can just ask.”

I yank on the fabric, harder than necessary.Oopsie.He can spare a few arm hairs.

“Ow! Are you trying to manscape me against my will?”

I step back, pause, and lean forward to undo the top two buttons of his shirt. Might as well go all in on this “sexy bartender” thing.

“Better slow down,” Ethan purrs. “If you keep undressing me, the crew might get the wrong idea.”

“Your look is ‘approachable bartender,’ notMagic Mikewannabe. Try to remember that.”

Ethan’s eyes meet mine, and for a split second, his smirk falters. “Chase, hold up. I’ve been running lines, and I think there’s a way we can enhance this scene—”

Wait, what?Is Ethan “Eye Candy” Barrett actually trying to contribute?

But then his signature grin snaps back into place. “Let’s make it more me-centric. Really showcase my natural charisma. We gotta give the people what they want.”

“Just. Stick. To. The. Script.”

“Aw, come on.” He winks. “Admit it. You’re scared the audience will be too busy drooling over me to notice your overwritten dialogue and artsy-fartsy camera angles.”

“Wake up, pretty boy,” I say, jabbing a finger at his chest. “My writing is what makes you seem interesting. Say the lines as written, or I swear I’ll write your character as a dickless, mute monk.”

Grr.How can I possibly have time for a boyfriend when this aggravating man demands all my attention? He's why my love life is on permanent hiatus.

No time to waste. I pivot on my heel and hurry to the video monitor. “Back to one, everybody!”

Staring at the screen, I catch a glimpse of my reflection.Yikes. Did I even brush my hair this morning?Hmm, honestly, I don’t remember. I run my fingers through my long brown locks, pulling them up into an artfully messy ponytail for the umpteenth time—I call itBedhead Chic.

Being a director is like herding cats, except these cats have egos the size of Texas. I’m running on three hours of sleep, six mugs of herbal tea, and half a granola bar. The bags under my big brown eyes are demanding an intervention from some miracle-cure concealer.

Whatever.I’m not here to win a beauty pageant. I’m here to make a goddamn movie!

And you know what? I fucking love it. Is it a total shitshow? You bet. Calling it stressful is an understatement—it’s more like living in a perpetual state of “Oh fuck, now what?”

People call me the Ice Queen of holiday movies, but they have no clue. This job is brutal. Most days, I feel like I’m barely keeping my head above water. But being tough as nails is what it takes to create something special in this ruthless industry.

Making stories that bring people joy—that’s what drags my ass out of bed at insane hours and keeps me grinding day after day. So if dealing with difficult actors and navigating studio politics is what it takes to deliver more hope and laughter, I’m all in. I’ll put up with the headaches, the stress, and yes, even actors withthe attention span of a goldfish(ahem, Ethan). Ice Queen? Fine by me. Let them try to do my job for a day.

“Action!” I bellow.

The bar door swings open, and in sashays our leading lady, a blonde too gorgeous for words. Her face falls as she slowly slides onto a barstool—a perfect portrait of melancholy—just as we rehearsed.

Great entrance, Megan. Now don’t fuck this up, Ethan.

He leans on the bar, flashing his movie-star smile that makes ovaries explode across America. “Looks like you’re having a rough day. I bet I can lift your spirits—”

This is the one. The magic, the chemistry, it’s all working. I mouth the words as Ethan continues.

“How about one lucky leprechaun, a lemon-laced libation that’ll have you licking your lips and longing for more?”

Wait, what?That’s not in the script. Before I can yell cut, Ethan starts flinging bottles like he’s a goddamn stunt clown juggling flaming chainsaws. One bottle slips and—

CRASH!

“Cut! What the hell was that dumbassery?”

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