I spent the first month at DCA Paris without a single sighting of Le Big Boss, as the assistants in my department call him. This is not surprising, considering the six floors and about as many layers of hierarchy that separate us. If we had ever bumped into each other in a hallway, he wouldn’t have known me from a bar of soap and I wouldn’t have recognized him.

Then the traditional Christmas party arrived. The organizing committee decreed it would be a costume event, and anyone who dared to turn up without a proper disguise would be sent home.

By a stroke of luck or misfortune, I happened to own an old costume just perfect for a Christmas party—Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. It was a fluffy onesie that came with a set of antlers adorning its roomy hood that covered the top half of my face and an elastic-band red nose. The costume had been in my parents’ attic since I’d graduated high school. It begged to be worn again.

I shouldn’t have listened to its pleas!

Had I known where that brown faux-fur onesie would land me, I would’ve never worn it to the office Christmas party. Heck, I would’ve never gone to that party to start with! But in the absence of a crystal ball to foresee the future, Rudolph had seemed like a great idea.

When I entered the meeting room, which had been transformed into a dance floor complete with a disco ball, it looked anything but Christmassy. Scantily clad Santa babes, provocative elves, and seductive angels—to say nothing of Playboy Bunnies—were gulping down champagne and undulating their lithe bodies to the beat of “I Know You Want Me.” Many of them were also singing along and winking at their dance partners, I know you want me, You know I want cha.

Their male coworkers weren’t far behind. They sported costumes representing an assortment of shoulder-padded Marvel superheroes with an occasional bare-chested Santa thrown in. Nearly every one of them drank, danced, and flirted with the ferocity of someone determined to get lucky.

In other words, much fun was being had.

“The name of the game is Locate Le Big Boss,” my office mate Delphine said, handing me a glass of bubbly.

A champagne cork shot through the air, a little too close for comfort to my face. I ducked, spilling the contents of my flute and making Delphine chuckle.

Straightening up, I looked around. “Maybe he isn’t even here.”

“Word on the street says he is.” Delphine winked, refilling my flute. “Barb and I have been trying to figure out which Iron Man he is, based on stature and voice.”

“Personally, I think he’s neither,” a tutu-clad black swan said, planting herself next to us.

Upon closer examination, the swan was Anya, a junior auditor famous for her illustrious conquests.

“Personally, I think he’s Père Noël over there.” Anya pointed at the tall, fully dressed Father Christmas stroking his white beard and chatting with two Playboy Bunnies in the corner of the room.

“You may be right,” Delphine said, contemplating the group. “I’ve heard Raphael’s latest fling was one of those ménage à trois deals that every man dreams about.”

I smirked. “So you think he’s trying for an encore?”

“The hell he is.” Anya put her chin up and pulled down her areola-revealing top. “His next fling will be me.”

With that, she strode toward Père Noël, her head high and her step bouncy. I couldn’t help picturing her firing at will from her jutting boobs, decimating the bunnies, and snagging Le Big Boss.

At least for the night.

“Have fun, ma cocotte,” Delphine said to me, moving away to greet a newcomer.

I marched away from the champagne cork crossfire and imminent Bunny Massacre. Since I hadn’t the slightest intention of locating Raphael d’Arcy, I stayed away from superheroes and Santas the entire evening, gravitating toward the older and more conservatively dressed colleagues. At some point, I danced with a fellow onesie-clad snowman who had an oversized carrot for a nose. But mostly, I sipped champagne and talked politics with the over-fifty crowd.

The problem was said crowd thinned quickly after midnight. By one in the morning, it became hard to find someone more interested in having a conversation than in making out. Not that anyone—male or female—would want to make out with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

My second problem was that I was growing increasingly warm and uncomfortable in my faux-fur costume. I would’ve left—I should’ve left!—then and there, but Delphine and I had agreed to share a cab ride home, seeing as we live in the same arrondissement.

Unfortunately, by the time I was ready to leave, Delphine was engrossed in an advanced flirtation with The Hulk, who looked a lot like her longtime crush, Alberto.

There was no way she was leaving now.

I sighed, refilled my flute, and stepped out onto the dark balcony. Removing my red nose, I turned my face up to let the fresh December air cool it. Five minutes later, I was having a blast all by myself on the balcony, which was more of a terrace, as far as I could make out in the dark. My body temperature had dropped, and my champagne-soaked brain had cleared enough to realize that the random balcony I’d escaped to offered the best view of Paris I’d ever seen.

My night was beginning to look up.

Looking out over the parapet, I downed my champagne and admired the brightly lit city when someone stumbled out and came to stand next to me.

It was the snowman I’d danced with earlier.

He gave me a nod and touched his beer bottle to my flute. “To your good health.”

“And to yours,” I said, trying to figure out how drunk he was.

And if I was peeved or pleased at his arrival.

Peeved, I decided. Definitely.

Unlike us staid reindeer, snowmen were fickle creatures.

They could melt down on you any time.