A Taste of Paris

When Shy Abby started her internship at a bakery in Paris, she didn't expect to be working for the beautiful, talented, outgoing Gia. Will romance bloom? Find out in A Taste of Paris, a furry / anthro illustrated story with weight gain elements. Includes dozens of shaded, colors pictures and 8,000 words. Excerpt below:

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“I wanted to ask, have you found a place yet, darling?” said Gia, as she locked up the front door.

“Uh…no, I’m staying at a youth hostel until I…”

“Great! So no place? You’ll stay with me, then,” she said, clasping her hands together.

She’d phrased it as a statement of fact, rather than as an offer, I realized. Was talking that way a French thing, or was it a Gia thing?

Oh my God, I then thought – I’m staying with her! It was exhilarating to think I’d be staying with Gia, but the thought that I’d be rooming with my boss seemed like a recipe for trouble.

“How much do you want for rent? Because I can’t afford …” I asked, hoping that might give me an easy out.

“Rent? Rent??” she asked, bursting into gales of laughter. I didn’t know why she was laughing, but it proved infectious, and I started giggling too. It was so unlike hers – mine being high pitched and chortling, like a schoolgirl watching a cartoon, and hers was deep, throaty, the kind of laugh you let out after hearing a raunchy joke.

“You silly girl,” she said, reaching towards me and pulling me into a tight embrace, then planting two air kisses on either sides of my ears. This one felt more like it was a French rather than Gia thing, I decided – but at this point, Gia clearly knew I was shy American, so her decision to do the gesture anyhow might itself qualify as a Gia thing.

“I won’t charge you a…how you say? Pretty penny,” she said as she pulled away.

“Oh…thank you, thank you…” I babbled.

“Come,” she said, grabbing my hand and leading me away from the store. I assumed she was leading me to her place, and was surprised when we wandered into an outdoor market.

“You live here?” I asked. I knew it was a stupid question before the words left my lips, so why’d I say it? Was being around Gia making me perpetually flustered, or was I just hoping to get another ‘you silly girl’ hug?

“Yes, welcome home.” said Gia. “My fireplace is that flambe, and my mattress is those loaves of bread.”

I’d become so caught up in my own recriminations that it took me a few seconds to realize she was joking, and by then it felt too late to laugh. So I summoned up a grin, before reflexively closing my lips, on account of how I hated how big my teeth looked.

“Let’s get supper, shall we?” said Gia, who practically danced her way across the aisles, buying this and that unfamiliar foodstuff. She spoke French to every shopkeep, but she spoke it so quickly that I couldn’t hope to understand it. All I could take in was the garrulous raw sound, the inflection, the clearly cheery and pleasant tone with which she greeted the world. Even in English, I realized, she’d be speaking a foreign language to my ears.

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