Page 106 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

I smirk, watching from my director’s chair as he walks by me to his own. Both of us are laser-focused on the monitors, evaluating the scene we’re filming. Well, he’s laser-focused. I’m 60% focused with at least 40% of my focus on how good his butt looks in those jeans.

Cut me some slack. He’s my boyfriend—it’s okay if I peek.

I tilt my head over and graze the inside of his ear with my tongue, knowing how it drives him bonkers. “Or,” I whisper in my sultriest voice, “we could stop early for lunch, go to my trailer, and I can have your balls right now.”

Ethan’s face goes serious like he is about to deliver a TED Talk. “Sweetheart, we’re already over budget. We have to wrap this scene. If we don’t, it’s going to mess with tomorrow’s schedule.”

“Babe, I know. I used to do this without you,” I say.

He cracks a grin. “If you hit your cues in the first take, I’ll do that thing you liked in the shower last night when we get home.”

“Ugh. But memorizing lines is so hard,” I fake groan because I can’t resist pushing his buttons(it’s basically my full-time job now). “Besides, it doesn’t matter. We both know you’re going to do your shower tongue trick either way.”

He glances over, but I’ve switched to be all about the monitors again. I want to make sure everything is perfect for the next shot. I still can’t wrap my head around it. We are making a movie.

About us.

Starring us.

Directed by us.

The set mimics the Barrett family living room at Christmas, but let’s be real—no one can capture Darla’s unique flair. To give it that extra, over-the-top touch, she sent me tons of Nolan-designed items from her shop. We’re talking plastic flamingos in every shape and size, tacky alligators donning Santa hats, and enough floral-print throw pillows to make a botanical garden jealous.

Our Christmas movie,Fa La La Love,was a ratings sensation. Watching our real-life love story unfold onstage brought in a staggering 2.5 million new subscribers, probably all hoping to catch a glimpse of Ethan’s abs. Not that I can blame them.

Since then, Cherish Channel viewers have been begging for a film about our relationship…starring us. The fans signed a petition with over 500,000 signatures. I’m pretty sure half of those were just Darla using different email addresses, but who am I to stand in the way of the masses and their questionable choices?

My new boyfriend and I don’t always agree on how our origin story unfolded. He claims he swept me off my feet with his charm and wit. I maintain that I was simply worn down by his relentless pursuit and the Florida heat. Potato, po-tah-to.

“You know,” I muse, squinting at the alligator stand-in for Bubbles, “when I was a little girl in Illinois dreaming of Hollywood, this is precisely what I pictured.”

Ethan laughs. “Deny it all you want, sweetheart, but I think this was exactly your dream.” He gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Now, Miss Pemberton, if you please, return to your mark.”

As I saunter back to the set, I overhear Ethan ask, “Taylor! Where are my Tums?”

I can’t help but grin. Karma’s a bitch. Turns out, the big director chair isn’t the cozy snack fest my leading man thought it was.

With all my experience, I could make it easier on him, but where’s the fun in that?

Out of nowhere, my nostrils are invaded by a familiar scent of sugar cookies and peppermint schnapps.

“There you are, hun! Oh, how I’ve missed you!” Darla’s voice cuts like a bedazzled machete through the noise of the set. She’s decked out in a flamingo-print sequin skirt and a bright-pink Chathan T-shirt. Subtle as always.

Pulling her into a hug, I nearly crush her lungs.

“Oof! Careful there, sugarplum,” she wheezes. “You’re squeezing tighter than the jeans I wore the night Doug knocked me up.”

I giggle. I’ve missed her patented overshares.

“Guess who brought goodies for the crew?” She holds up a ginormous tote bag, grinning like a kid who snuck into the attic and found the motherlode of hidden Christmas gifts.

She pulls out Chathan socks, shirts, car air fresheners, and scented candles. She brings a candle to my face. “Here, take a whiff! It’s like Florida came to visit!”

I edge closer, take a sniff, and gag. “Ooo-wee, smells… swampy.”

Then she pulls out a ceramic sculpture that fits in her palm. “Surprise! I got some brand-new Christmas ornaments Nolan sculpted of you two. Ain’t they adorable?”

I stare at the ornament, holding my best poker face. It’s supposed to be Ethan and me, but our features are all wonky. You know how AI mutates faces and distorts fingers? That’s this Chathan ornament. But I give mad respect to Nolan—the guy can capture the magic that is my frizzy, humidity-induced hair.

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