Page 68 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

Sweet baby Jesus in a manger. He’s the King of Christmas and the king of my fantasies.

Seeing how much the livestream is blowing up, he’s the king of a lot of women’s fantasies—apparently every woman on the planet. Fan after fan approaches Ethan, and when I glance at the phone, very provocative comments are flooding the chat.

Damn ladies!It’s enough to make an OnlyFans model blush. Nothing PG-13 about these wishes.

It’s the reminder I need—to tread lightly. To be realistic. Tonotfall into the fantasy myself.

This is a fun fling, nothing more. Guys like Ethan don’t end up with girls like me. They want the red-carpet-ready babes, the models with perfect teeth and Instagram-filtered lives. Not some Type-A control freak who guards her feelings like a maximum-security prison.

Ethan is a Hollywood playboy. He loves the attention more than anything or anyone. I, on the other hand, am not used to any of it. Not the public displays of affection, and certainly not Ethan being sweet to me. The snarky, annoying Ethan I know how to handle. This caring, adoring Ethan is messing with my head.

I’m just here for the sex…Shit. Subscribers! I mean subscribers.

Mere minutes later, Ethan’s drawn a crowd. “Who has a wish for me to grant? And no, I can’t make it snow in Florida. I’m magical, but I’m no wizard.”

A pack of teenage girls giggle and raise their hands. “Will you do a TikTok with us?”

“Your Christmas wish is my command,” Ethan says with a grin. “But fair warning, I only have one dance move, which I call the Drunken Reindeer.”

I hold the camera, filming as they teach Ethan the dance. He’s surprisingly good, picking up the moves quickly. It’s all over in two minutes. The girls squeal and thank him profusely.

A teen in the group approaches me, her eyes wide with envy. “You’re so lucky you’re dating Ethan. Is he a good kisser?”

“He’s the best,” I blurt out.

Ethan’s grin widens. He pulls me into a photo with the girls, his hand clasping my waist possessively. Dangerous butterflies gather in my stomach as he moves his thumb sensually over my hip. If he’s trying to start a fire down there, mission accomplished.

“Next dare,” I announce, forcing myself to step away.

For the next hour, Ethan fulfills wish after wish as our subscriber numbers steadily climb. He’s recording personalized video messages, snapping pics for husbands to surprise their wives, signing Christmas cards, and even singing carols.

At one point, he starts juggling ornaments, which goes about as well as you’d expect. One slightly banged-up nutcracker and several broken ornaments later, he gallantly gives up.

My favorite wish comes next. Ethan begins acting out famous scenes from our movies with fans. I’m shocked when I see him remembering his lines perfectly. Then I hear women recite back lines that I’ve written, word for word, and unshed tears fill my eyes. Their reactions show me they love it as much as I do. I can feel how much my movies have touched them. I’ve brought them the warmth of Christmas, just as I’d hoped. My heart cries out with purpose and joy.

One fan even gets a kiss on the cheek, which definitely doesn’t make me jealous. Not at all. I’m not imagining pushing her headfirst off the pier. Nope.

Ethan charms everyone around him, and I’m in awe. He’s so good at this, and it’s not an easy job. To read someone—know how to meet them where they’re at in an instant. To match their expectations and bless them with a moment. Seeing him with his fans is kind of… magical. It’s got the warm, fuzzy feels of Santa, but like if Santa was a hot, flirty sex god in tight jeans.

A group of little old ladies holding grocery bags approaches me. “Can we go next?”

“Of course,” I say, calling out to Ethan. “These lovely gals are coming up.”

Ethan beckons them over. “Hello there, lovelies. Enlighten me… What’s your Christmas wish?”

The most innocent-looking lady of the bunch, possibly a retired kindergarten teacher, says, “We want you to be a human sundae. Extra whipped cream, if you know what I mean.”

I almost drop the phone.

Suddenly the seniors are pulling out different sundae toppings from their bags—hot fudge, caramel, and a spray can of Reddi-wip. I half expect one of them to pull out edible underwear.

Ethan smirks into the phone. “Okay, this is pretty crazy, but since it’s Christmas, I’ll do it. I have one condition. Only if my gal licks it off.”

The roaring crowd loves it as much as I hate it.

“No, no, no,” I protest, but Ethan’s already extending his arms, welcoming the gooey mess.

“Ladies, get pouring!”

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