Page 78 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

Sand flies, her legs pumping, tearing up the beach. My brain’s spinning, feet suddenly useless. I stumble forward, still dazed, and face-plant into the warm sand, getting a mouthful of Marco Island’s finest.

I scramble to my feet, spitting out grit, but Chase is halfway down the sandy stretch. She crosses the finish line, arms raised in triumph, a solid three seconds ahead of my second-place finish.

My family of backstabbers cheers her victory.

I sweep her into my arms and kiss her, knowing without a doubt that she’s the prize I truly want.

***

The damp sand moldsto our feet, cool and velvety, as Chase and I walk along the shore. Our fingers are entwined, swinging gently back and forth, a silent expression of our affection. With each step, a shiver runs up my spine. I wonder if it’s the rhythm of the waves or Chase’s magnetic presence causing this sensation.

Our third wheel—Bubbles—waddles beside us on his leash. He eyes a seagull like it’s the last hot dog at a Fourth of July barbecue.

“Bubbles, no,” I mutter, giving his leash a tug.

He shoots me a look that says,You’re not my real dad, but thankfully decides the bird isn’t on today’s menu.

I am constantly drawn to Chase, my eyes taking in both her physical beauty and the subtle changes in her expression. She’s relaxed, happy… comfortable in her own skin. I’m getting to see the woman behind the director’s chair, the Chase, who isn’t afraid to be a little silly and a little vulnerable.

Am I the only person who sees this softer side of her?

But I can’t shake the feeling that once this trip is over, I’ll be nothing but a passing moment in her life.

“I see you side-eyeing my flamingo flip-flops,” Chase teases, catching me staring. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

“Player?” I scoff. “You’re a dirty, dirty cheater. Filthy promises were made. I expect you to keep them.”

“Oh, I meant what I said,” she quips with a smirk before turning her gaze back to the water. “Ethan, look! Dolphins!” Chase shouts, her eyes lighting up with childlike wonder.

I pull her close, her back against my chest, and wrap my arms firmly around her waist. Resting my head on her shoulder, we watch two dolphins play together, jumping in and out of the waves.

I hold her tight, the moment expressing what words cannot. I’m hoping she can sense the depth of my feelings through my embrace.

“Come on, lovebugs. It’s picture time!” My mom’s voice cuts through the ocean sound, and our time is up.

We trudge up the sandy shore to join the family. My mom is jumping with excitement. “Okay, Barrett family! Who’s ready for this year’s photo theme?”

We give a halfhearted cheer, and I nudge Chase to join in.

Mom’s not satisfied. “Y’all can do better than that. Who wants to hear this year’s theme?”

Chase, bless her heart, really gets into it this time, cheering the loudest, which makes my mom smile.

“Dougie darlin’, drum roll, please,” Mom says.

Dad obliges, performing high-spirited tapping on his belly.

“This year,” Mom announces with flair, “we will be… an ’80s glam metal band!”

I stifle a groan.

“I’ve got costumes and wigs and blow-up guitars. Go get dressed!”

Chase shifts into director mode. “Darla, I’d be glad to snap the photo. Just share your vision with me, and I’ll bring it to life.”

Mom waves her off. “We’ve got a camera timer for that, hun. Besides, you can’t take the picture. I want you to be in it.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t impose on your family Christmas card photo,” Chase protests.

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