Page 14 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

Ethan, sensing the impending catfight, steps in. “Sorry, ladies, we really need to go. Thanks again for coming out to support my—I meanournew movie.”

“Bye Ethan, we love you!” Gail calls out sweetly as we turn to leave. Then, loud enough to ensure I hear every syllable, she says, “We’ll be monitoring those relationship updates!”

As we make our escape, I can feel Gail’s stare burning holes in my back. It’s quickly replaced by Ethan’s growl.

“You,” he whispers, “have some serious explaining to do, Director Pemberton. Why the fuck did you just broadcast to the whole damn planet that we are an item?!”

CHAPTER FOUR

Ethan

I follow Chase intoher apartment, and it’s like… I walked into a sensory deprivation chamber.Everything is either white, beige, or that soul-sucking shade of gray they use in prisons. Does she have a vendetta against color? And what’s with all the minimalist furniture and decor blending in with the walls?

I venture into the kitchen, my eyes searching for any sign of life—a boyfriend, a half-dead cactus, hell, even a dirty dish would suffice. But there’s jack shit. This place takes the cake for the strangest apartment I’ve ever seen, and trust me, I’ve been in plenty of women’s places(don’t judge).

Chase thought it best to go somewhere private to discuss what had just happened. With pictures of us already blowing up on social media, I wasn't the only one wanting answers. Althoughnow part of me wonders if she lured me here like a sadistic serial killer because her place gives me the fucking chills.

“Jesus, Chase,” I say, running a finger along a spotless countertop. “Do you actually live here, or is this some kind of movie set?”

Chase taps away on her phone, not even looking up. “Don’t touch anything. I’m getting my laptop. We are going to handle this mess before it gets out of hand.”

She leaves the room, and that’s when I spot it—a sign of life. A stack of movie scripts are scattered across a sleek glass coffee table. Of course, the only personal touch is work-related.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t expect a dog, but my money was on a hamster or at least one of those… what do you call ’em? Those depressing fish that live in a sad little jar… A beta. You know, the type of thing that can live without mutual love or human connection.

“Ethan!” Chase shouts from her bedroom. “Shoes off, Barrett. I don’t want you tracking your ego all over my floors.”

“Sure thing, boss,” I yell back, kicking off my sneakers. “Seriously Chase, where’s all your shit?”

Chase struts out, laptop in hand. “Some of us prefer a tidy space to a hot mess. Unlike your place, which I imagine looks like the ‘lost and found’ bin at a strip club.”

For a moment, I imagine rolling in the sheets with a control freak like her. Clipboards, timers, the works. Performance reviews in bed? Pass. I swipe left on that idea faster than my last one-night stand.

I smirk playfully. “Well, the bedroom is the only room that matters—because that’s where the magic happens.”

Chase scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, maybe if you prefer your living space filled with regret and hepatitis.”

“I wouldn’t call this living. You don’t have a single photo in this place,” I say. “Surely someone must have tolerated you long enough to get a picture with you?”

A flicker in her eyes.Was that… sadness?It’s gone in a blink.

“My personal life is not your business,” she says, her voice clipped. “Or anyone else’s. I don’t feel the need to plaster my life over social media for likes.”

“Hey, my fans appreciate my openness.”

“Your fans go crazy for your shirtless selfies,” Chase fires back. “They don’t know the real you. And if they did, they wouldn’t like it.”

Damn. That’s harsh.

I’m well aware that my fangirls love the persona of Ethan Barrett—the holiday romance movie hunk who looks good in nothing but his abs and a Santa hat. And yeah, that’s part of me. I’ve spent years crafting that heartthrob image.

But the real Ethan?

Heck, these days I don’t even know ifIknow him.

Chase sits in her sleek, gray armchair, its sharp angles unyielding to her body. The narrow armrests are rigid and uninviting, so much so that I’m uncomfortable for her. But she seems accustomed to it as she opens her computer and types. Her fast clicks fill the stark, sterile room.

Across from her, I flop onto the rock hard sofa.Oof.It’s so stiff it makes aFWUMPFsound like it’s never been sat on. The fabric is scratchy. Definitely not comfortable enough to fuck on(just saying).

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