Page 69 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

The not-so-sweet seniors whoop and cheer, drizzling an excess of pure sin onto Ethan’s broad, muscular chest. The caramel flows down in golden, molten streams, tracing every hard line and curve of his pecs like a lover’s fingertips—likemyfingertips. I can’t deny it’s a tantalizing invitation.

Hellz yeah, except for all the bystanders. Hard pass.

My eyes are hypnotized by the hot fudge as it slides down his torso. The sweet, slow lava oozes, thick and dark—a wicked contrast against his tanned skin. It travels its way across the valley of his rippled abs—a slow, sensual tease that causes my breath to hitch and my pulse quicken. The sight of it, decadent and dirty, makes my tongue tingle.

Then comes the whipped cream, sprayed generously from the can, forming soft, fluffy mounds on each nipple, just begging to be licked. It melts slightly against the heat of his skin, a creamy temptation that has me biting my lip and squirming with anticipation.

God, this is embarrassing. Who does this in public? Where’s the shame, people?

But still, the combination of the sinful toppings on his rock-hard body is fucking criminal. It’s a feast for the senses, a playful, erotic promise that has me aching to let my guard down and taste him. Ethan turns to me, his eyes dancing with challenge, a dare testing my resolve.

The crowd cheers. Ethan looks like the world’s sexiest human sweet treat. My face is hotter than a blowtorch. If I blush any harder, I’m going to burst into flames.

Ethan walks up to me, takes the phone, and gives it to a grandmotherly figure to keep filming.

“Okay baby, time to eat your sundae. C’mon. Don’t do it for me. Do it for the subs.”

A tug-of-war brews inside me between my self-respect—my carefully crafted director rep—and the immediate pressure to play the part. I scan the mass of people, thinking about all the subs we still need. He’s right. I asked for this. Notthisexactly, but this fake relationship, and whatever comes with it.

I watch the fudge and caramel combo dripping down those abs. Decision made. I smile like I’m not mortified and aroused beyond comprehension.

“You’re gonna like this a lot more than me,” I whisper to Ethan before shouting, “Let’s make this a Christmas to remember!”

I take a deep breath and flick my tongue to his nipple for a little taste test. Then, I begin a long, slow lick from his abs all the way up to his collarbone. Mmm, yummy!

The crowd bursts into cheers and whistles. My face is beet red, and my silly smile takes over my cheeks. I’m feeling ridiculous, wild, daring, and invigorated all at once.

Amidst the excited praises and screams, one of the grannies shouts, “Get it, girl! Now lick those abs like a lollipop!”

“You heard her,” Ethan says. “You coming back for seconds?”

Before I respond, Ethan’s arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I gasp. I’m colliding with his sticky chest, my hands instinctively coming up to brace against his shoulders.

Then his lips are on mine, sweet and sugary like a candy shop exploded in his mouth. The kiss is soft yet demanding, his stubble rough against my skin. I’m talking make-you-forget-your-own-name kind of kissing. The kind that makes you wonder if you’ve been doing it wrong your whole life.

It shouldn’t feel this wonderful. It’s aggravating. I pull him closer, and—

My phone buzzes angrily in my pocket, shattering the moment. I jerk away from Ethan, flushed and breathing hard. The caller ID flashes “Wiley & Riley,” my bosses, and reality comes crashing back.

“I have to take this,” I tell him, putting distance between us.

“Chase Pemberton,” I answer, trying to sound professional, despite my sticky, goopy clothes and the fact that I was just exploring Ethan’s tonsils.

“Excellent work, Chase!” Wiley’s voice crackles through the speaker. “The content you’re producing is pure gold. Stay on track. You’re halfway there.”

I blink. Content? What content?

Then it clicks.

They think I’m the mastermind behind all the viral dares.

Stunts that were entirely Ethan’s ideas.

I almost spill the truth, but then I remember the massive debt from film school and the tiny apartment I can barely afford. I need this job, or I’ll end up directing feel-good ads for adult diapers.

A twinge of guilt hits me, but I squash it.

“Thank you,” I say smoothly. “I am producing results, aren’t I?”

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