Page 23 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

“And I’m so excited to meet your girlfriend!” she gushes.

“Chase, this is my mama, Darla,” Ethan says, gesturing between us.

I extend my hand, summoning every ounce of politeness I can muster. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Barrett. Thank you for having me.”

Darla looks at my outstretched hand like it’s a foreign object from another planet. “Oh honey,” she coos, “we don’t do formal here!”

She pulls me into a hug with the grip of a python. The scent of sugar cookies and peppermint Schnapps invades my senses, and I fight the urge to sneeze directly into her tinsel-adorned hair.

After what feels like forever, Darla releases her grip and gives me a once-over. “Well, you’re just as stiff as Doug on our wedding night.” She follows with an exaggerated wink. “If you know what I mean.”

I’m still reeling from that mental image(stop it, brain)when Ethan’s father makes his grand entrance. He emerges from the front screen door looking like Ethan’s stunt double from the future. His light-brown hair is peppered with silver, and his kind blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.

His outfit, though? Pure Florida dad on a bender. Khaki shorts, boat shoes, and a T-shirt that proclaimsMerry Gator-mas!with a cartoon alligator rocking a Santa hat. It’s like he’s trying to win the “Most Florida” award.

Ethan and his dad launch into what appears to be a secret handshake-hug hybrid, clearly perfected over years of practice. Istand uncomfortably to the side, feeling like an intruder on this family moment.

Finally, he notices me. “Where are my manners?” he says, turning in my direction. His eyes widen as he surveys me. “I’m Doug. Aren’t you a beauty? Ethan, she’s a real knockout. I can see why you fell for her.” He pauses, glancing at his wife. “Not as beautiful as your mother, though.”

I force my mouth to smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Barrett.”

Doug’s face scrunches up like I’ve just insulted his alligator shirt. “Oh my. We like to keep it casual around here.”

“You can just call us Doug and Darla. Now let’s go inside before the mosquitoes smell fresh blood!” she says, wrapping her arm around mine.

“State bird of Florida,” I blurt out.

Doug’s face lights up, and he gives me a hearty slap on the back. “That’s right! Come on in, you two. I just made my special Christmas Gator punch!”

As we follow the Barretts towards the house, I shoot Ethan a panicked look.

He whispers through his arrogant expression, “Welcome to the family, sweetheart.”

***

I’m standing in whatIassume is the Barrett family’s entryway, though “chaos containment unit” might be more accurate.

In the cramped corner of the room, there’s a makeshift holiday punch station. The punch bowl? A life-sized alligator head, jaws wide open, filled with some suspicious liquid. Its plastic teeth gleam under the lights as Doug reaches for a glass.

“You’re gonna love it, I guarantee!” he says.

I take a sip of the murky green concoction, half expecting the goo to wink at me. “How did you get it to be so… slimy?”

Doug’s face lights up. “My Gator Punch is a concoction of coconut rum and pineapple juice mixed with melon liqueur,” he begins, chest puffing out with pride. “But to get that swamp-like texture… I use gravy mix.”

I swallow the liquid, miraculously not gagging. The drink slithers down my throat, a bizarre mix of tropical sweetness and savory thickness. It’s as if he blended fiber powder into what would have been a tasty piña colada.

Meanwhile, Doug downs his entire glass in one go, smacking his lips with satisfaction. “You can’t even taste the gravy!”

I consider dumping the rest of my drink in the nearest potted plant, but think twice. In this backwoodsy place, it’d probably come to life and eat me. I’ve seen enough horror movies not to risk it.

My eyes dart around, searching for any hint of organization.Ha! As if.There’s a bench by the door, buried under a mountain of shoes, jackets, and what looks like every umbrella ever manufactured. The “Florida survival corner” is stocked with enough sunscreen and bug spray to last through the apocalypse, and is that… gator repellent?

“Where should I put my things?” I ask.

Doug just laughs. “Anywhere you can find a spot, darlin’! We’re not picky.”

Clearly.

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