Page 29 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

The shower kicks on with a hiss, and suddenly my brain is hosting a one-woman show featuring Chase—buck naked and bold as brass. She’s a goddess in that steam, water dancing down her body, tracing paths my fingers ache to follow. Her breasts are unrestrained and magnificent, and I hear delicate moans slip from her mouth while the water showers her with adoration. It’s music to my ears.

I give my head a sharp shake, trying to evict the mental image. No indulging in enemy-related fantasies! Even if that enemy has legs that stretch forever and a backside that deserves its own Pinterest board.

Damn it, Ethan, she hates your guts, she’d love to see you crash and burn, she’s completely off-limits—and she’s your fucking boss.You still have to work with her when this is over.

Logic kicks in, and I opt for a quick snooze. If Chase’s naked body makes an appearance, that’s on my subconscious.

A little shut-eye later…CRASH!

A noise from the bathroom awakens me.

“Chase?” I yell out. “You good?”

Silence.

“If you’re trying to make a break for it, no need. I’ll buy the plane ticket and drive you there myself!”

Still nothing. Not even a sarcasticfuck off. Now I'm concerned.

I hear a muffled sound that might behelp. But then, she screams.

“HELP!!!”

In a split second, I scramble to the door. “Hey, what’s going on?”

I put my ear to the door… Nothing.

“I’m coming in.”

I swing open the door, steeling myself for whatever chaos awaits. I imagine the worst, but instead…

It’s equal parts hilarious and arousing. Chase is standing there in her underwear, battling a red sweater that’s trying to swallow her whole—arms stuck up in the air, head completely engulfed, and shirt barely covering her bra. She’s a modern-day mummy, but with way more underboob and a lot less dignity.

“Help!” she yells again. “I’m trapped!”

I rush over, stifling a laugh. “I am going to put my hands on you. Try not to get turned on.”

“Nowyou ask for consent?”

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Your mom’s PJs are the size of a toddler’s onesie!”

“Be still,” I command, grabbing on to the bottom of the sweater and yanking downward. “Man, this thing is on tight!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Chase shrieks. “Get it off, not on!”

I switch tactics, pulling on the shirt’s sleeves. “Why are you wearing this?”

“Huh? These are your mom’s stupid Christmas jammies.”

“This is so small, it’s obviously Bubbles’ sweater. There are flamingos on it.”

“Everything in this house has fucking flamingos on it!”

Chase flails wildly, banging into the door and knocking toiletries off the sink. “I can’t breathe!” she says. “Seriously… about to… blackout.”

“Bend over,” I instruct. “I’m going to pull it off from the bottom.”

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