Page 64 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

“No, it’s not!” I protest, though now that he’s said it, I can’t unsee the phallic shape.

“The Cherish Channel would not approve,” Ethan jokes, waggling his eyebrows.

I burst out laughing. "No, they would not. I can save it. I'll add a little green frosting and look! A souvenir.”

“Of what?”

“Your limp fish dick,” I say with a smirk, licking frosting from my finger.

“You seemed pretty content with my mighty sea snake last night,” he says, smiling, but then his eyes darken and smolder with desire.

An awkward silence falls between us. Why does he have to be so temping? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. He’s an actor, playing a role. None of this is genuine. It’s his game, a well-practiced charm offensive that he’s mastered for the camera and countless women before me.

I can’t let myself fall for it.

I look away and focus on my cookie. “You’re overestimating the impact of your flaccid jellyfish. I barely felt a sting.”

“Sweetheart, you can’t bullshit a bullshitter,” Ethan says with a chuckle, then changes the subject. “Talk to me, tell me something, anything. How do you celebrate the holidays?”

I tense up. “Normal stuff.”

“Come on, give me more than that. Growing up, did you leave milk and cookies for Santa? I bet you bossed your parents around like a mini director to make sure they built your Barbie Dreamhouse to perfection.”

“We didn’t do the whole Santa thing.”

“Okay, no Santa. But how about the tree? I can totally picture a little Chase managing the ornament placement.”

“Can we just focus on the cookies?” I cut him off, my tone harsher than I intended.

Ethan’s face falls slightly.

I hate that I notice.

I hate that I care.

“Hey, I’m not trying to pry,” he says softly, his eyes searching mine. “I just… I want to learn more about you, Chase. There’s so much I don’t know.”

I sigh, my shoulders sagging under the weight of his honesty. I get that we’re stuck together till Christmas, but what’s his angle here? Why the sudden interest?

“Can we not… Please?” I beg.

I don’t do backstory. I don’t do vulnerability. And I sure as hell don’t spill my tragic childhood over dick-shaped sugar cookies.

In my line of work, I’ve learned to keep my guard up and my emotions in check. I’ve earned my title as the Ice Queen of Romance. I can make America swoon with my movies, but that doesn’t mean I’m buying into the whole “love conquers all” nonsense.

Because here’s the thing: Love isn’t always pretty. It’s seldom made of fairy tales and happily ever afters. I’ve seen firsthand what “epic love” can do to a person. How it can take a vibrant,charming man like my dad and reduce him to a shell of his former self, numbing his sorrows with whiskey and neglecting his only daughter.

My parents’ love story was the stuff of movies—a chance meeting at a laundromat, a whirlwind courtship, a picture-perfect life. But when my mom died, she took a piece of my dad with her. And I was left with a man who could barely remember to keep the lights on, let alone make sure there were presents under the tree on Christmas morning.

Love is just another way to lose yourself. I’ve seen the damage it does, watching my father drown in a love that left him empty. Some people might call it tragic. I see it as a warning.

Ethan’s eyes are on me, warm and knowing in a way that makes my skin prickle. I hate it. His presence is a reminder of everything I’m trying not to feel.

For a while, we frost cookies in silence. The only sounds are spatulas scraping against bowls and the occasional clink of a sprinkle shaker.

“You know, it’s kind of ironic,” Ethan says. “You love the idea of Christmas in your movies, but you clearly hate Christmas.”

The words sting. My hands freeze mid-frost, the cookie suddenly blurs in front of me. “I don’t hate Christmas.” I admit too honestly. “My dad wasn’t really... great at it. He... wasn’t around much. Let’s just say he preferred a liquid dinner to family dinner.”

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