Page 87 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

I want to reach out, to comfort her, but one wrong move and we’re roadkill.

She’s hysterical now, screaming. “But you? Your life’s a Goddamn movie on the Cherish Channel. Family that actually gives a shit, parents who adore you. You get to live in fairytale land, Mr. King of Fucking Christmas.”

Shit. Maybe the truth will make her hit the brakes.

“You don’t have a clue about my life,” I shout through the howling wind. “This whole King of Christmas shtick? I don’t do it for the shits and giggles. It’s a fucking lifeline.”

Chase’s foot eases off the gas slightly. But it’s enough to let me breathe.

“You want to know why I agreed to this insane fake dating plan? It’s not just about my job, it’s for my mom’s store. The pandemic nearly destroyed everything. My parents were on theverge of losing their house. You mock all the merch, but my career is what saved my family from financial ruin.”

At last, the car slows to a mere eighty-five mph.

I swallow hard. “The truth is… I’m stuck being the King of Christmas… whether I want to be or not.”

“Ethan, I-I had no idea.” Her death grip finally eases as she blinks at the speedometer. “Christ, I’m driving like a damn lunatic. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Can you stop the car?” I ask, desperate to hold her. “Please, Chase. Let’s figure this out together.”

Too late.

Red and blue lights explode in the rearview mirror.

The siren screams to life.

Busted.

“Fuck,” Chase breathes, pulling over.

The car rolls to a stop, and I’m caught between relief that we’re alive and dread at what comes next. I extend my hand instinctively, but she flinches away.

“Let me handle the talking,” I say, hoping to use my hometown hero status to clear things up.

A middle-aged officer with a balding head and a beer belly approaches the driver’s side. “Evening, folks,” he drawls. “Care to explain the rush?”

Before I can open my mouth, Chase jumps in. “Officer, I apologize for the speed, but we’re in the middle of a code-red PR crisis. Hollywood emergency, not your typical swamp stuff.”

Insulting the officer. Great plan.

“Sorry, Officer. She’s from California. One of those yoga-pants-wearing, green-juice-sipping, paper-straw-drinking, eco-warrior types who doesn’t know any better,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “The holidays have her a little high-strung.”

Chase whips her head around to glare at me. If looks could crush, I’d be dust.

“High-strung? You mean you think I’m crazy. I open up, share my feelings. I tell you how suffocated I feel by your family, and you’re—”

“Are you serious?” I snap, my patience running thin. “You almost killed us. That’s a whole new level of crazy—and yes, I’m comparing this to the crazy you give me on set every day.”

The officer flashes his light into our faces, and his eyes widen. “Well I’ll be, it’s Chathan! Your mom sold me a shirt for Christmas. My wife’s a huge fan. That’s so neat how you come up with those movie ideas together.”

Chase bristles at his words. “Give him all the credit for that atrocious shirt, but those are my movies. I’m his boss. He works for me.”

“Yeah, I’m the guy she orders around nonstop. My reward is getting blamed for all her problems when things don’t work out exactly like she wants.”

“Excuse me?” Chase’s voice rises an octave. “You only get blamed when it’s your fault. Which is all the fucking time!”

That’s it. I open the car door, stepping out into the cool night air. The breeze does nothing to cool the fire in my veins. “I don’t have to listen to this shit,” I growl.

The officer’s voice takes on a warning tone. “Sir, you need to stay in your vehicle.”

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