Page 91 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

“Are you dating each other just to promote your new movie?”

A burly man lunges, but Ethan deftly maneuvers us out of the way, his reflexes lightning fast. With each move, his muscled chest presses against my back, and despite the adrenaline surging through my veins, I find myself leaning into him, craving his touch.

The crowd inches closer. Microphones jab at my face. Cameras click rapid-fire. I’m drowning in noise and light and bodies. And then I hear a female voice that makes my blood run cold.

“Ethan, she forced you into this relationship, didn’t she?”

My stomach lurches. Thorn in my fucking life, fan club president psycho hose beast from hell, Gail.

Her eyes burn with hate, and she’s clutching a sign with our mugshots on it. Ethan looks like a handsome rascal who got caught stealing hearts (and maybe a few wallets), while I look like I stuck my head in an airplane engine. On purpose.

Ethan’s grip tightens.

Possessive. Protective. Real.

The steady thrum of his heartbeat presses into me. How can he be so calm?

Gail shoves her camera in my face and snarls, “We all know the truth. You used your director status to force Ethan to sleep with you. Admit it!”

I open my mouth, ready to defend myself, but Ethan speaks first, his voice deep and firm.

“We have no comment on our private relationship.”

The questions keep coming.

“Ethan, have you sworn off dating popstars?”

I want to hide.

“Chase, are you a childless cat lady?”

Preferably in a hole.

“Who came up with the name Chathan?”

On Mars.

I am safe with Ethan. There’s madness swirling around us, yet somehow he has this ability to make me feel like everything’s okay. But it’s definitelynotokay. We’re in the middle of a paparazzi shitstorm. Wait, did I just see a “Team Ethan” T-shirt?

I spot Nolan outside the crowd, waving us toward the red Mustang like we’re about to pull off the ultimate heist. Ethan guides me into the back seat, his hand lingering on the small of my back. Instead of claiming the front seat, he slides in beside me, staying close, as if sensing my fear and refusing to let more than two inches come between us.”

The door slams. Nolan guns it. I’m thrown against the seat as we peel out, the world outside the windows becoming a blur. Behind us, a swarm of cars. Predators chasing prey.

I gulp in air, lungs burning. When did I stop breathing?

“How did they know we were there?”

Nolan’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “That crazy redhead lady, probably. She’s been everywhere. Taking pictures. Stalking the store. Showed up at our house last night when you guys didn’t come home.” He grips the steering wheel tighter, weaving through traffic. “Mom nearly unleashed Bubbles on her.”

Anxiety washes over me. I pull out my phone, fingers shaking. The Ethan Addicts page loads. My breath catches. Pics of us everywhere. Walking. Talking. Some of it shot through the Barrett house’s windows. There may not be nude photos, but I still feel exposed seeing our private moments splashed across the internet like some twisted peep show.

Nolan continues, “Bro, I don’t care what your guys’ relationship is—real, fake, or performance art gone horribly wrong—but this is not cool.”

“How screwed are we?” Ethan’s words come out clipped.

His thumb gently strokes my knuckles, our fingers entwined.

When did we start holding hands?

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