The traditional Farewell to Winter Ball is in full swing.

OK, the ball isn’t a real tradition because it hadn’t existed until twenty years ago. Then one year, Josephine, the wife of our eternally reelected mayor, introduced the extravaganza and got the d’Arcy family to sponsor it.

I guess that’s the reason Count Sebastian d’Arcy is always in attendance.

And the reason the good citizens of Verlezy and the neighboring villages gather in the town hall, suffer through a speech or two, and then eat, drink, and dance into the wee hours of the morning.

Celine and Ma always drag me to the ball.

They don’t do it for my sake, mind you. I’m just the inextricable owner of the two male arms they like to lean on when entering the town hall.

This year is no different.

No, it is different. While I’d normally look forward to chugging down some beers with my buds and maybe sneaking off with a local woman, tonight I’m not in the right mood for either.

I haven’t been in the right mood for twelve days now, ever since Rissa spent a night at my cottage and announced she was going back to Paris.

“Oh, come on!” Celine nudges me with her elbow. “Stop sulking.”

I force a smile.

“Do you notice something different about me?” she asks.

I study her face. “You’re wearing lipstick.”

“What else?”

“Um… mascara?”

“Yes!” She beams. “Anything else?”

“If this is a quiz, do I get a beer for three correct answers?”

She rolls her eyes and huffs.

“She’s wearing a skirt,” Ma says. “A skirt!”

I look down to verify that improbable claim. It’s safe to say I’ve seen Celine almost every single day of her life—she’s two years my junior—and never, not once, has she worn a skirt.

But today she is.

“It’s not too awful,” she says. “As long as I remember to keep my knees together when I sit. But the heels, they’re killing me.”

As if to confirm her statement, she trips and spills some of her beer on the floor.

Ma pats her cheek before pulling a small pack of tissues from her handbag, reminding me of Rissa.

I sigh. Everything reminds me of Rissa these days.

My friends Danny and Mo wave from the middle of the room and saunter over. As Celine and I chat with them, I can’t help wondering if Rissa will make an appearance alone or in the company of her colleagues.

I haven’t seen her in twelve days, ever since our night at the cottage.

“Hey, Nathan!” someone calls from the entrance.

A moment later, Thomas, my second cousin on Pop’s side, joins our group. “Good evening, Brigitte.”

“Haven’t seen you in… forever.” Ma gives him a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Just passing,” he says noncommittally.

Thomas studied advanced mathematics but instead of applying for academic jobs when he graduated, he chose to use his math skills in banking. Turned out to be a great move. For the last six or seven years, he’s been working for an investment bank in Dijon, developing financial models, and amassing millions.

“So, what do you do for a living?” Danny asks Thomas.

He pushes his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m a mathematician.”

“Hot nerd alert,” Celine whispers to me.

I take another look at Thomas, and it hits me how much he fits her type.

She should totally go for it.

But the poor thing is too awestruck to utter a word. She downs her second glass and mumbles, “Need another one.”

Poor Celine.

Ma and I exchange a look as Celine scurries away.

When Danny and Mo move on, Ma arches an eyebrow at Thomas. “So, what did you say you were doing here?”

“I’m looking for a house to buy.”

“Moving to the country?” Ma asks.

He smiles. “No, just as a getaway. And a quiet retreat for when I want to do some hardcore math.”

Celine slips and falls in the center of the room, causing a commotion. She’s prone on the floor, her face next to her spilled champagne.

Thomas and I rush to her and help her to her feet.

Her cheeks are crimson. “This is the first and last time I wear heels!”

She takes a step and halts, cringing.

Thomas squats next to her. “Which foot?”

She points at her left leg.

He removes her shoe, takes her foot in his hands and begins to press various parts of it. “Does it hurt here? And here? What about here?”

She shakes her head to each of his questions, gazing at him as if he was an apparition. Next, he palms her ankle and asks her to take another step.

“Sprained but not broken,” he declares, standing up.

While he helps her limp toward the nearest chair, I go to the drink table to get her a new glass. When I return with it, Celine and Thomas are sitting next to each other, chatting. Her foot is on his lap.

“It’s best to keep it elevated until she gets home and applies ice,” he explains.

Celine’s expression is dreamy, like she can’t believe this is happening to her.

“Do you go to the library often?” she asks him.

He shakes his head.

I bug my eyes at him from behind Celine’s back.

“But I love reading,” Thomas adds quickly. “I have a big library at home.”

I was over at his place in Dijon a few weeks ago. There was no library there, big or small.

You’re digging your own grave, man.

“In my Paris apartment,” Thomas says.

Oh, I see what he’s doing. He’s hoping to seduce Celine locally and confine their fling to Burgundy. That way, she’ll never see his Paris apartment and have a chance to call him out.

“Would you like to see it?” he asks her.

Celine tilts her head. “Your library?”

“Yes.” He stares into her eyes. “I’ll be working from Paris next month, and if you can take a weekend off and visit me, you can borrow as many books as you want.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I will.”

I leave them to their own devices, hoping that Thomas won’t wait too long before telling Celine he doesn’t read outside of math and finance, and that he’s a banker. Scanning the room, I spot Ma who’s found Anne-Chantal and a few other cronies. Good. Anne-Chantal will give her a lift, which means I can go home.

The door opens, and before I’ve even turned to see who it is, I know it’s Rissa.

As soon as she spots me, she makes a beeline in my direction. “I was hoping to find you here.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be packing?” I say. “That is, if you’re still leaving the day after tomorrow.”

She smiles. “Most of my stuff is already in Paris, and I’ll come and get the rest next weekend.”

I say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

She moves closer. “I’ve been… thinking about you.”

“Of course,” I say, expelling a bitter snort. “That’s why you called and texted all the time.”

“Neither did you.”

“You’re the one who sneaked out in the morning.” I give her a hard stare, even as my hands burn to touch her, to press her to my chest. “You’re the one who’s leaving.”

She nods and looks down at her feet. “I wanted to ask a favor.”

“Ask.”

She probably wants me to keep her boxes until next weekend, seeing as there’s plenty of room on the farm.

Her eyes are still downcast as she says, “Will you make love to me tonight, one last time?”