Page 71 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

“Bingo!” She snaps her fingers. “Then we’ll live happily ever after in an underwater sex dungeon, where he gives me orgasms daily. Twice on Sundays.”

And there it is again. Our little back-and-forth, like a well-rehearsed dance. Keeping me at arms length.

She shuffles over and sits on the starboard side of the boat, her gaze fixed on the fresh evening sky and its shimmering stars. Off in the distance, a flotilla of boats covered in decorations and sparkling lights bobs along, getting in position for the Christmas parade. My mom’s giant flamingo topper towers above the rest.

“So why aren’t we boating with your family?” Chase asks. “Aren’t we supposed to beinthe parade?”

“Well, I thought for your first time, it might be more fun to watch it instead. Just us. No family. No fans.”

“Can I be honest? When we were decorating today, I felt like I was giving a makeover to a garbage barge. All those janky cords and lights. I was sure it was going to look like a floating flea market. But I have to admit, at night, with all the boats lit up, it’s not completely hideous.”

“That is some high praise there, sweetheart. Careful, now. People will think you’re falling in love with Florida.”

“There’s more of a chance of me falling in love with you.”

Our eyes meet, and we’re lost in each other for a moment. But then her lips curve into that smirk I know so well, and I brace for impact.

“Which means absolutely zero chance.”

Well, that hurts more than a bee sting to the dick.

My typical arsenal of charming one-liners and smooth moves has evaporated, turning me into a fumbling idiot. I don’t want to fall into the same old player routine. Not with Chase.

I wish she could acknowledge the man behind the heartthrob mask. The guy who gets so anxious before each take that he sweats through his fitted T-shirts. The man who spends hours in the shower rehearsing lines, until his fingers are prunier than a 90-year-old’s ass. I need her to realize that I’m an actor who genuinely aspires to be taken seriously, especially by her.

When Chase looks at me, I know she thinks what everyone else does—Ethan Barrett, Hollywood’s charmer, a leading man with plenty of style but lacking substance. To most women, I’m a fantasy come to life, a walking, talking embodiment of their wildest dreams.

A passing thrill.

To bang and forget.

I’m just a fuck on their bucket list.

Turns out, shaking off a persona you’ve honed for years isn’t easy. I don’t fault Chase for seeing me that way. But it’s not the real me… not anymore. And I need her to understand that.

I notice her shoulders tremble slightly, and I spring into action. I reach into the picnic basket I’d stashed earlier and pull out a soft blanket.

“Here,” I say, my voice coming out huskier than intended.

“Thanks. I wore this stupid dress because I thought we were riding on the SS Holiday Disco Barge,” she grumbles, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders.

I’m relieved she’s covering up, because that dress is testing every bit of my self-control. It’s a knockout green, with a neckline that accentuates her cleavage and a skirt that’s teasing my imagination. My fingers itch to reach beneath it and feel her soft skin, to coax her sweet moans back into my ear.

But I want to give even more than that. I want to tell her how incredible she is. How her talent leaves me in awe every day. How her fierceness and vision inspire me to become a better actor, a better man.

I take a seat next to her, trying to appear casual, but every muscle in my body tenses. My usual charm is nowhere to be found, leaving me unsure of how to act without my go-to moves.

“So,” I manage, clearing my throat with a chuckle. “Who’s the genius that decided leading ladies in Cherish Channel movies have to wear dresses for parades? Seems a bit impractical for December, don’t you think?”

“That was me,” Chase admits with a sigh. “But I had no clue they were freezing their tits off. I’m totally changing that for my future movies. So, get ready to act like you’re hot for parkas and snowsuits.”

I let out a laugh, but it’s cut short by a deep, bellowing horn that pierces the night air. Chase jumps, instinctively gripping my arm.

“What the hell was that?”

“That, sweetheart, is the start of the Marco Island Christmas Boat Parade.”

Right on cue, the first boats round the bend, lit up like Vegas on New Year’s Eve. The cheers from the shoreline crowds fill the air, with the enthusiastic ringing of cowbells adding to the excitement. We’re far enough away that we’re surrounded by darkness, fully taking in the spectacle.

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