Page 21 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

“We need a strategy, a social media campaign. Not a general feeling of goodwill.”

“I know,” I say nonchalantly, pointing to my head. “I’m working on a plan as we speak.”

“I don’t know if you should be thinking and driving. That’s asking a lot from that pretty boy brain of yours.”

“You can knock off all the bull—”

“AARGH!”

Chase screams, “Oh my God, oh my God, I swallowed something! I freaking hate this disgusting, sticky, bug-infested hellhole!”

“Lighten up. It’s a bug. Probably a mosquito.” I wink at her. “They’re the state bird of Florida, you know.”

She coughs and hacks, as if trying to expel a demon. Then she grabs her water bottle and starts chugging, trying to drown the bug. In her frenzy, she spits out the side of the car.

Straight. Into. The wind.

The spray comes right back, splattering her face.

I lose it, howling with laughter. Chase looks like a cat that fell into a bathtub—frizzy hair, streaky makeup, and soaking wet.

“Hey, look on the bright side,” I say, gasping between chuckles, “at least the water’s blending in with all that sweat. Florida’s natural moisturizer, baby!”

She is not amused—that oh-so-familiar look of murder on her face once again. “I hate you, and I hate Florida.”

CHAPTER SIX

Chase

“Oh, thank God.I can smell the ocean.”

The salty breeze washes over me, a refreshing change after the miles of muggy misery. I take in a deep, cleansing breath, purging the swamp and bug guts from my nostrils.

“Sorry to break it to you, but that’s not the ocean. It’s the Gulf of Mexico.”

“Oh, thanks for the mansplanation. How about I womansplain where you can stick your condescending attitude? Here’s a hint: It starts with ‘up’ and ends with ‘your ass.’”

Maybe Floridians get all hot and bothered about different bodies of water, but the rest of the world? Couldn’t care less. Especially me. Then we round a bend, and holy crap, Marco Island pops up like a freaking vacation commercial. I soak in the view, and suddenly, I hate him a little less.

The island is too much—a beautiful blend of sand and civilization. Palm trees hula dance in the breeze on long, clean beaches. Quaint sailboats. Shimmering water. Orgasmically blue skies. I want to live here… or at least write my next script here.

“What a relief,” I admit. “I was starting to think Florida was one big smelly swamp that farted you out. That stench was un-freaking-bearable.”

“You’re unpleasant. To work with. To travel with. You know that song ‘Shut Up and Drive’? Let’s try that.”

“I’m trying to be nice. I thought you were dragging me to some swampy hellhole, but instead… well, let’s just say you’ve redeemed yourself. A little.” I smile, taking in the sand, city, and sky.

Ethan smirks. “I’d hold off on thanking me just yet.” He turns the wheel sharply, steering us into a dense patch of trees on a two-lane gravel road. Seconds later, it looks(and smells)awfully similar to the Everglades.

“Where are you going?” I ask frantically. “You said you lived on the island!”

“Oh, yeah, about that. I meant to say I livenearthe island.”

“You’re such an asshole. I can’t fucking stand you.”

“You’re gonna need that rage for where we’re going. Destination: Mosquitoville. Population: ALL OF THEM.”

As we plunge deeper into Jurassic Swamp, my mind reels with questions. How does someone go from a redneck in Shrek’s backyard to a leading man in Tinseltown, USA? This is Ethan Barrett, for crying out loud. A man who’s made swooning an Olympic sport. He should be another Hollywood blowhard lounging in Malibu mansions—not playing Tarzan in the backwaters of Florida.

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