After dessert, everyone moves to the drawing room, splitting into small groups. The butler serves a selection of sweet wines for ladies, whiskey and eau-de-vie for gentlemen, coffee for me, and a spiced chai tea for the mayor’s wife.

Genevieve sits down by my side on the sofa and spends a few moments watching me watch Sebastian and Diane.

“I’m sure he’s brought her here with the sole purpose of making you jealous,” she says, pointing her chin toward the couple.

Oh, I doubt it.

For the first time in months—make it a year—young Count Sebastian d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars de Saint-Maurice has come to a house party at his family estate in Burgundy with a woman on his arm. And, to make sure there was no doubt in anyone’s mind as to her status, he introduced her as “Diane, my girlfriend.”

A tomboyish checkout clerk, Diane is nothing like the regal heiress he dated last year. Nor does she have much in common with the overachieving me, or any other woman I’ve ever seen within flirting distance of Sebastian.

Perhaps that’s why he’s into her.

Because, he is into her.

There’s no way the desire in his eyes when he looks at Diane is fake. Besides, why would he bother scheming when he knows he can have me anytime? Nothing has been said between us, but I’ve dropped enough hints and given him more than enough seductive smiles and glances over the last year.

He knows.

And I know that he knows, even if my self-proclaimed friend Genevieve seems to believe I’m a nerd with zero emotional intelligence.

Last time Genevieve and I crossed paths was at Raphael’s birthday party here at Chateau d’Arcy. I had too much to drink, which had the unfortunate effect of blunting my instincts and loosening my tongue. Genevieve confessed to me she was in love with the middle d’Arcy brother and her childhood friend, Raphael. I admitted I had the hots for the oldest brother, Sebastian.

“Here’s to snagging the two most eligible bachelors in France!” Genevieve raised her glass. “Sebastian is worth a billion, and Raphael isn’t far behind.”

“It’sh not about his money,” I slurred.

“Naturally.” She gave me a wink. “I would never imply something so vulgar.”

My ears still burn with shame every time I remember that exchange.

Truth is, it is a little bit about his money.

Not in the sense that I’m eager to lay my hands on one of the country’s oldest and biggest fortunes. Even though I like nice clothes as much as the next woman, I’d rather make enough to buy them myself than latch onto a man with deep pockets.

No, the way money affects my feelings for Sebastian is subtler than that.

Never mind that he owns a huge fragrance company, multiple houses in France and abroad, a Greek island, a private jet, and one of the largest estates in Burgundy. What matters is that said estate includes the Darcy Grotto and the adjacent museum that I curate. And that makes Sebastian the lucky owner of one of the most ancient and remarkable Paleolithic rock-art caves in Europe.

It’s as if owning those cave paintings were his personal achievement, as if he’d created them or, at least, discovered them himself.

Sebastian is handsome and cultured, albeit aloof. I decided he was very attractive the day I first met him. But I can’t help wondering if I’d be just as impressed if he were a local librarian or a mail carrier.

Or a dairy farmer.

I tune back in and realize Genevieve has been talking to Diane. She must have said something mean, because Diane purses her lips and there’s a hard look in her eyes as she glances at me.

Wait a second! Why is she looking at me? What did Genevieve say?

Panic seizes me as I consider the possibilities.

Apart from inviting me to dinners and house parties at the castle—along with the mayor, his wife, and a bunch of other people—Sebastian has never said or done anything to suggest he was interested in me. What if Genevieve told Diane otherwise? What if she told Diane he and I were seeing each other?

As I sit there, petrified, embarrassment warming my ears and dampening my palms, Sebastian takes Genevieve’s place on Diane’s right. The next moment, he’s kissing her in a way that’s too intimate to watch.

That’s it, I’m out of here.

Easier said than done.

Sebastian intercepts me before I have a chance to sneak out of the room. He says I should stay, for my safety. He hates the idea of me driving home alone on poorly lit countryside roads.

“You’ll sleep at the castle,” he announces in a tone which makes it clear the matter is closed.

Next, he calls the housekeeper and asks her to get one of the guest rooms ready.

I mumble thank you and sit down again, not daring to look at anyone—especially, Diane—and bracing myself for more mortification.

Mercifully, Yves Fournier, the mayor of Verlezy, remembers he wanted to discuss something with me. He sits down on my left, his wife Josephine takes the spot on my right, and the three of us spend the rest of the evening plotting how to dovetail the Grotto’s outreach with Verlezy Primary’s extracurricular activities.

When I finally go to bed, it’s one o’clock in the morning.

The emotional shock inflicted by Sebastian and the never-ending discussion with Yves and Josephine have left me drained, which explains why I drop off the moment I shut my eyes. But it doesn’t explain the dreams. One of the dreams, to be more exact—the one I’ve been having nearly every night for a couple of months now.

In it, I’m alone in the smallest cave of the Grotto and feeling uncommonly and inexplicably aroused. The warm flickering glow of several candles lights the room, and there’s a musky smell in the air. I lean against the wall and touch myself as I picture him. Right on cue, he materializes by my side, leans into me, and covers my busy fingers with his large hand. His mouth descends onto mine as he rubs my bud, and I feel a long finger slip inside me.

Oh, oui! Right there. More, please!

He adds another finger and pumps deeper, faster—

I can never remember if he makes me come, but I always—always—wake up wet.

Shocking, I know.

What’s even more scandalous is that the man in those dreams is not Count Sebastian d’Arcy. Nor is he one of my five ex-boyfriends. He isn’t a faceless stranger conjured up by my imagination, either.

He’s Cowboy.

Aka the dairy farmer who’s taken the tour of the Grotto half a dozen times since January, and whom I often spot at various local events.

I don’t know his name.

Since I’d never date him, I’m not even interested in learning it. If ever he tried to hit on me or if a common acquaintance formally introduced us, I’m sure we’d have nothing to say to each other.

For one, he has no interest in archeology. Whenever I sneak a peek at him during the tour, he’s staring at me, not at the paintings on the walls.

And, I don’t care for farming.

So, when I find myself in the same room as him, I pretend I don’t know who he is. To make my point even clearer, I avoid acknowledging him with a hello or a nod.

He’s never on my mind in daytime.

I don’t look forward to his next visit or to a chance encounter in the village.

So why those dreams?