by Shen, L. J.
Christmas In The City
Helena Hunting & LJ Shen
Melanie Harlow & Corinne Michaels
Vi Keeland & Penelope Ward
Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy
Kennedy Ryan & Sierra Simone
LH Cosway & Penny Reid
Contents
Foreword
Helena Hunting & L.J. Shen
Just the Tip
Melanie Harlow & Corinne Michaels
Baby it’s Cold Outside
Penelope Ward and Vi Keeland
Kissmiss in New York
Sierra Simone & Kennedy Ryan
The Christmas Crown
Penny Reid & LH Cosway
Songbird
Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy
Epic
Dear Reader,
Twelve bestselling authors came together this holiday season to do something special for the romance community. We wanted to share FREE, never-before-published stories born from a spirit of collaboration. These six stories are co-written by authors you may have seen work together often in the past, and by some you've never seen work together before and maybe never again! Each story takes place in a different city. New York, Washington, D.C., Dublin, Toronto, Chicago and Paris. Travel all the world with us this holiday season and fall in love!
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Just the Tip
Helena Hunting & L.J. Shen
It’s not every day you meet a stranger who knows how to jingle your bells…
Copyright © 2019 by L.J. Shen and Helena Hunting.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
1
Reggie
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 ruse—I’m not really studying abroad, although that’s what my mother and friends back home believe—I followed their advice. I found a quaint little studio apartment near Paris Diderot University, at which I’m pretending to study, allowing me to keep up pretenses with frequent selfies taken on campus. I’m really searching for my father, who disappeared from my life years ago, post-IRS investigation. I firmly believe he’s here, in Paris, and I’m 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 I’m 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 monsieur—which is really just a fancy open-faced toasted ham and cheese sandwich—cease to hold their original appeal.
It doesn’t help that I’m lactose—and customers—intolerant. I’ve been popping Lactaid pills like a raver pops mollies.
As for the customers—I’ve 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. He’s constantly hitting on me, which is awkward, especially since he hits on every single other server—male or female—who 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, there’s 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 I’ve 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 don’t 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. I’m 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.
“He’s a disgusting pig.” Elodie is an exchange student like I am, except she’s from Australia instead of the US.
Oh, and she’s actually a student. I just pretend to be for the sake of my mother’s fragile heart.
“It wouldn’t be an authentic international experience if there wasn’t 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. It’s 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 wouldn’t 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 boyfriend’s rippling abs, while I ponder my own existence. Or just get drunk on cheap wine, alone, whichever is more likely—option two, if you’re wondering.
Elodie and I deliver eight orders of croque monsieur to a table of college students, and refill their café 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. He’s dressed in a black suit, which isn’t 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 professional—possibly 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.
Nothing I can do about it now since I’m already at Business Guy’s table, and a trip to the bathroom to oust the stain will take precious minutes in which my potential tip will deteriorate.
“Bonjour, hello.” I manage to infuse a rainbow of cheerfulness in those two words.
His finger tapping ceases and he lifts his gaze from the menu. I notice a plethora of minute details in the brief moments between my speaking and our eyes locking.
He is quite literally the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. It’s as if one of those sculptures from the Louvre has suddenly come to life and decided to grab a spontaneous lunch here, in this boulangerie. His dark hair is styled neatly to the side, making his hair sweep elegantly across his forehead. The kind I always feel compelled to mess up for some reason. His eyebrows are arched, almost villainous, cheekbones high and contoured, like a model’s. His lips are full and plush and pillowy. Tauntingly kissable. And his jaw is square, sharp, with just the tiniest shadow of stubble.
He is an absolutely fuckable work of art.
All sexually responsive parts of my body agree wholeheartedly with this assessment.
His vivid, bright blue eyes meet mine and instantly I’m transported to a lush tropical landscape. I can almost feel the grit of sand between my toes and warm lapping of ocean water as the tide rushes in to cover my ankles.
Oh no, wait, that’s just someone’s escaped teacup poodle using my leg as fire hydrant.
“What the—Hey, I’m not a tree!” I give the little dog a nudge with my toe, setting him off balance. He wobbles and falls on his side like a drunken sailor, licks himself (also like a drunken sailor), then jumps to his feet and yips at me.
A lady rushes over, shoots a hateful glare my way, as if I’m somehow in the wrong for getting peed on, scoops up her rat-sized dog, and brings him right to her face. Cooing dramatically, she allows him to lick her, more specifically her lips.
“He was just licking his own penis,” I point out.
And what an inappropriate observation to make out loud, Reggie.
Sculpture-Come-to-Life Man cough-choke-laughs.
Thankfully, the woman doesn’t seem to understand me, so my mortification can begin and end with the man currently snickering at the table in front of me. The woman struts back to her table, tucking the tiny dog back into her purse and shoving it under the table. People are forever smuggling their purse-dogs in here. While I’m certainly not opposed to pet-friendly environments, I could do without being used as a bathroom stop.
I turn back to the most gorgeous man in the entire universe and am incredibly surprised when actual words come out of my mouth and not just a litany of garbled, nonsensical sounds. “I’m so sorry about that.” I give my head a shake. “Je suis tres—”
He raises a hand to stop me. “English is fine.”
Oh my God. His voice is rich like a chocolate croissant and deep like the Grand Canyon. But the best part? He’s British. He could literally whisper car insurance quotes in my ear all day and I would be in heaven.
I realize he’s still speaking, and all I’m absorbing is the cadence of his voice, not his actual words.
“I’m sorry, pardon? I didn’t catch that.”
Don’t fidget, Reggie. Keep it together. Also, don’t offer yourself up as an appetizer.
“If you’d like to clean up before you take my order, that would be quite reasonable.”
“Oh! Right! Of course.” I crouch down and pull the cloth from my apron, with the intention of mopping up the area where the tiny dog piddled. It’s already mostly absorbed into the concrete, and also my sock and shoe.
“I meant you, not the ground.” British Sculpture Man’s fingertips skim the back of my hand in the gentlest of caresses, making my heart somersault and dive straight to my groin. “If you’d like a minute, I can wait.”
My nipples stand at attention and I inadvertently Kegel from the contact. I’m basically squatting beside him. I could disappear under the table and no one would be the wiser.
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” I croak and push to a stand. “Totally fine.”
“You are?” he replies skeptically. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I acknowledge that he might not want to be served by a person who is reeking of pee, but I’m already here, so I might as well take his order.
“Never been more positively certain in my bloody life,” I accidentally fall into a fake British accent.
He tips his head fractionally, eyes crinkling at the corners while his mouth quirks up. God help me, even his WTF look is delicious.
“I’m not making fun of your accent. I think it’s gorgeous. Your accent, I mean. You also.” I motion to him with frantic hand gestures. “Are gorgeous, much like your voice. I just . . . whenever I hear a British accent, I immediately become British in my head and then it comes out of my mouth. I’m so sorry. Are you expecting someone else, or will you be dining alone today?”
I’m one thousand percent sure my face is the color of a stop sign.
I sincerely hope that most of the people here can’t understand my rapid-fire word vomit.
“I’m expecting someone shortly.” He leans back in his chair, his amusement glittering in his aqua eyes.
I’m sure women must be tongue-tied on a regular basis around him. It should honestly be illegal to be this attractive. How does anyone function around him?
“Right, of course, you are. Can I get you something to drink while you’re waiting for your guest to arrive?”
He orders a glass of Perrier with one slice of lime, no lemon. Impossibly, he makes Perrier sound even more posh than it is in his sexy British accent.
Before I check on the rest of my tables, I rush to my locker in search of a spare pair of shoes, or socks, or anything that I could wear in place of the damp sock-shoe combo I have going on. Fortunately, I have a pair of checked Vans, AKA my street shoes, which are not ideal for serving tables, but are 100% dog pee-free. I also have to go sockless, which I hate, but again, better than the alternative.
Once I finish washing my hands, I return to the dining room in time to see Hottie British Man stand to greet his lunch date. “Of course, she’s gorgeous,” I mutter, taking in her willowy frame, luxurious brunette hair, and mile-long legs, clad in heels I wouldn’t be able to stand in, let alone walk. My toes wiggle involuntarily in my Vans as I follow her movements with my gaze.
I bet this guy has dates lined up every damn night of the week. I’m annoyed at myself that I’d like to be one of those dates. I’m also annoyed that if offered the chance, I’d go out with him despite knowing I’d be one of many, many women to hang on his every syllable. I have to assume he has an ego the size of Canada. I don’t know how someone that physically perfect wouldn’t.
I wait until he’s tucked her chair into the table and taken his seat again before I deliver the Perrier and ask if his guest would like something to drink. She orders a glass of red wine. She reaches across the table and covers his hand with hers.
“Do you already know what you’re going to order, Horace?” she asks in a sweet, French accent.
Horace? That name doesn’t fit him at all. David, Michelangelo, Davinci, even God Almighty are more suitable.
“I was thinking the special.” He slips his hand out from under hers and turns his tropical blue gaze to me. “What do you reckon, Reggie?”
For a moment I’m flummoxed as to how he knows my name, until I remember that I’m wearing a nametag—like I do every single day I work.
“The co
ck—” I grimace. “Croque monsieur is always quite popular.”
He smirks. “Ever tried it yourself?”
His date apparently misses the thinly veiled sexual innuendo.
“Too many carbs,” she mutters, shuddering in her little—and I mean extremely tiny—black dress. I don’t know how she can wear so little when it’s this cold, but I suppose if I was on a date with this guy, I’d probably want to show up half-naked, too, just to make the transition to fully naked that much easier.
I barely contain my eye roll. France is full of carbs. It’s baguette and cheese heaven. Keto is sacrilege here. Or at least it should be.
Horace’s date requests the salad niciose, en français, sans the potatoes, dressing, olives, anchovies, and bacon.
“So basically...just lettuce, tomatoes, and an egg?” I blink at her.
“Ahh, no egg, either.”
Horace decides on the coq au vin. Likely just as an excuse to say the word cock without being an overt perv.
Interestingly, all through lunch he keeps sneaking peeks at me. Or maybe I’m just hyperaware of him since his entire dining experience so far has been fraught with my folly.
Halfway through the meal I notice that he keeps shifting his suit jacket out of the way. At first, I think he’s checking his phone, but then I realize it’s a freaking pager.
“What do ya think’s goin’ on over there?” Elodie tips her chin in Horace’s direction as she polishes silverware.
Their meal is long finished and they’ve been sitting there for a good ten minutes. I offered them another drink, but both declined. Sexy, Skinny French Lady is gathering her purse and jacket. Horace stands and they air kiss on the cheek before she sashays out of the restaurant.
