L. J. Shen - Christmas in the City Anthology All Elle Kennedy books about 80 Titles

Its not every day you meet a stranger who knows how to jingle your bells

Burnt cheese, hot chocolate, and red wine.

These will forever be the scents I associate with Paris. Not the delicious, fresh pastries, boutique perfumes, the stunning architecture currently decorated with Christmas ornaments, garland wrapped around lampposts, cobblestone-lined streets boasting red and green accents, or the dazzling, well-lit boulevards and bridges, railings spun with glittering festive lights.

Immerse yourself in the culture, my mother said. Get a part-time job, she lamented. Or my personal favorite: Be one with your surroundings.

Despite the ruseIm not really studying abroad, although thats what my mother and friends back home believeI followed their advice. I found a quaint little studio apartment near Paris Diderot University, at which Im pretending to study, allowing me to keep up pretenses with frequent selfies taken on campus. Im really searching for my father, who disappeared from my life years ago, post-IRS investigation. I firmly believe hes here, in Paris, and Im determined to find him.

In addition to the university ruse, I found a job serving tables at an upscale boulangerie. Employment is actually a necessity so Im able to afford to live in this very expensive city. It was a corner spot, sandwiched between a Tunisian restaurant and a flower shop bursting with color and vivid scents. The boulangerie was under a Gothic-styled building with wrought iron railings on Juliet balconies, just like you see in the movies.

For the first several weeks I indulged in all things bread, cheese, and wine. But after a while, the pungent aroma of burnt cheese, compliments of the ever popular croque monsieurwhich is really just a fancy open-faced toasted ham and cheese sandwichcease to hold their original appeal.

It doesnt help that Im lactoseand customersintolerant. Ive been popping Lactaid pills like a raver pops mollies.

As for the customersIve yet to find a cure for them.

I sail through the kitchen, the pervasive, overpowering scents of oil, toasted bread, and cooked meat attacking my nostrils. The cacaphony of smells are permanently embedded in my uniform and is nearly impossible to get out of my hair.

Your order for table eleven iz up. Jacques thick French accent, and his tendency to replace the letter s with a z makes the simple statement sound romantic. Unfortunately, Jacques is anything but. Hes constantly hitting on me, which is awkward, especially since he hits on every single other servermale or femalewho works here. He also happens to be in his early fifties, with a serious potbelly, pervy stach, and hair growing out of his ears and nose. Seems like no matter where you go in the world, theres always at least one skeezy guy who works in the kitchen. Even more exciting is the fact that he hits on me in French, and while Ive been studying the language for several years, textbook French and actual France-French are not even remotely the same thing.

Thanks. I load my arms with plates as quickly as I can in order to avoid potential pervy commentary.

He winks exaggeratedly. Pas de problem, mon petit chou-fleur.

I really dont understand how being called a little cauliflower is a term of endearment.

Elodie, one of the full-time servers appears at my side and breaks into aggressive French. The speed at which she speaks makes it difficult to catch all but the occasional word. Im fairly certain she calls him a shithead, though. She grabs three plates and tips her chin in the direction of the dining room, indicating I should follow her.

Hes a disgusting pig. Elodie is an exchange student like I am, except shes from Australia instead of the US.

Oh, and shes actually a student. I just pretend to be for the sake of my mothers fragile heart.

It wouldnt be an authentic international experience if there wasnt at least one workplace harassment issue, would it?

Elodie snickers and then schools her expression, adopting a lazy smile as we step out into the dining room. We weave through the tables, heading for the terrace. Its sunny, helping to temper the December chill. The crisp, cold air makes me shiver, but the heat lamps strategically placed around the terrace make outdoor dining possible. I wouldnt be inclined to freeze my fingers off out here, but there seems to be an extraordinary number of people who are.

I long for warmer days of late summer, when I first arrived, where I could lounge in a park with a baguette, my lactose pills, and some cheese, resting my head on my fabricated boyfriends rippling abs, while I ponder my own existence. Or just get drunk on cheap wine, alone, whichever is more likelyoption two, if youre wondering.

Elodie and I deliver eight orders of croque monsieur to a table of college students, and refill their caf au lait and waters. Once they seem content with their food, and the seventy-five-thousand extra things they also need before they can actually consume their lunch, I perform a visual sweep of my tables.

A new patron is seated in the very corner with his back to me. A plain manila folder sits at the edge of the table, a white document paper peeking out. His hand rests atop it, long fingers tapping restlessly, a silver watch adorns his wrist. Hes dressed in a black suit, which isnt uncommon in here. Our clientele ranges from university students, to business professionals, and sometimes the hospital staff from down the street. But they often order for pick up instead of dining in.

On the floor beside his leg is an old, worn leather satchel. I peg him as a business professionalpossibly a quirky one with his posh suit, expensive watch, and his worn-out bag that looks like it came from a secondhand store.

I glance down at my uniform of black dress pants and white button-down. Why anyone thinks white is a good option for the service industry is beyond me. Invariably, I end up with some stain on my sleeve by the end of my shift. Of course, today I already have some sort of reddish orange smear in the shape of a dildo on my left side boob, two inches from my nametag. Aphrodisiac? I tend to agree.