Page 39 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

Chase moves close, her voice low. “Spill it, pretty boy. What is happening?”

“Remember all those times I asked for the scripts the night before shooting? So I could practice the new scene changes? But you were always ‘fine-tuning it,’ leaving me to memorize everything at the last minute. This is payback for that, darlin’.”

She groans and rolls her eyes.Shit.She’s adorable when she’s pissed.

This morning, we posted our video challenge and smashed our 50,000-subscriber goal in just three hours; making our grand total 150K subs. Today’s assignment from the naughty or nice jar?Ethan chooses a secret dare for Chase.

It’s been driving her nuts all day, and I’ve been savoring every second of her squirming.

Except secretly, I’m the one squirming every time I recall her(almost)sleeping hand job this morning. The sensation of her smooth, soft fingers grabbing my—hold up. Not going there. Think unsexy thoughts.

Grandmas twerking. Airport diaper changes. The spectacle we’re about to see. Chase in those delicious purple lace undies—Dammit!

I casually shift to adjust my growing hardness under the table, praying no one notices how she’s getting to me.

“So, Ethan,” Mom chirps, yanking me from my increasingly reckless thoughts. “Are you gonna give us a hint about Chase’s dare?”

“Sorry, Mama. This woman luu-ves surprises,” I drawl. “Don’t want to ruin it for her.”

Mom turns to her. “Ooh, I bet it’s a doozy! Our Ethan’s always been a creative one. When he was five, he decided to ‘improve’ the neighbor’s nativity scene with dinosaurs. You should’ve seen baby Jesus being cradled in those triceratops horns. It was a hoot!”

Dad adds, “He’s an idea guy, just like me. I bet he’s giving you good ones for filming all the time.”

My ‘girlfriend’ forces a smile. “Oh, he’s a nonstop bundle of ideas. Can’t shut him up most days.”

From day one, Chase has had me on her shit list. I remember that second week of filming like it was yesterday. I’d just wrapped a take and was pretty damn proud of myself. But Chase? She responded with a silence that was deafening. Her disapproval filled the air, choking me with every breath. I was bracing myself to be fired, or maybe replaced by a cardboard cutout she’d consider “more believable.”

But then there’s this other side to her. This tiny nod she’d give after a scene, so subtle you’d miss it if you blinked. And fuck if it didn’t make my chest swell like I’d just won an Oscar. It’s been an emotional rollercoaster ever since, complete with loop-de-loops and unexpected drops.

She’s got this gift for making me feel like I’ve personally offended her by existing. It’s a special talent, really. And here’sthe kicker—I actuallycare. Me, Mr. “Hit It and Quit It” Barrett, is as desperate for her approval as a puppy begging for treats.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to people loving me. It’s my superpower. I flash a smile, crack a joke, and ta-da! Instant adoration. But Chase is immune. Like trying to charm a brick wall—a very talented, incredibly intimidating brick wall.

And it’s driving me insane. Why? Because I respect the hell out of her. When I told her I wanted to direct, I wasn’t just blowing smoke up her perfectly sculpted ass. She’s the real deal, a genius behind the lens.

Next to her, I’m a kindergartener with a disposable camera.

I doubt she knows how closely I watch her on set. The way she frames each shot, how she draws performances out of even the most difficult actors (yours truly included). She’s got an intuition for the heart of a scene.

I want to tell her I genuinely admire her work. Explain how I’ve rewatched her films to the point of obsession, dissecting her techniques like a film school geek. I’ve got stacks of notebooks filled with observations from our shoots. But every time I open my mouth around her, something idiotic comes out.

Her opinion matters to me.

I wish it didn’t.

But it does. Fuck, it does.

I glance at her, but she avoids my eyes. She’s scanning the room, clearly plotting her escape.

Mom giggles as a pitcher of pale yellow liquid, tangled in a web of twinkling Christmas lights, lands on the table. “Sip, sip, hooray!” she chirps, raising her glass.

We clink glasses and drink. Chase’s expression twists like she’s just sucked on a lime dipped in chili sauce. “That’s an odd flavor.”

“Spiced eggnog margarita,” Dad explains. “It’s a real taste explosion!”

Chase spits the drink back into her glass. “So, where’s Nolan?” she asks.

“Oh, don’t you worry, hun,” Mom says with a wink. “He should be here any minute.”

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