My new Workaway volunteer, Lorenzo, points to the trimmed part of the hedge. “How am I doing?”

“Not bad at all!” I nod in appreciation. “You’re a natural.”

“It’s because I’ve done this before.”

I try not to smile as he intones his remark with a singsong Italian accent, adding an “eh” at the end of each word.

“May I?” I take the shears from his hands and clip the little branches that stick out.

Two years ago, Ma planted this hedge around the nicest cottage on the farm after we decided to turn it into a guesthouse for tourists. In spring and summer, they come for fishing and hiking in the area, or just to get away from the city and enjoy some peace and quiet.

I hand the shears back to Lorenzo. “All yours.”

The young software engineer from Florence and his girlfriend arrived two days ago, and will stay through May, working four hours a day in exchange for accommodation and food.

When they’re gone, I’ll take in two new people. The farm has three single-story cottages on its grounds, built by my grandfather and updated with modern amenities by Pop.

I occupy one of them so that Ma and I don’t crowd each other’s space. The second cottage is for paying guests. The third one—only big enough to serve as temporary lodgings for a single person or a couple—stood empty for years because Ma preferred to put up visiting family and friends in the main house.

So, it made an awful lot of sense to host Workaway helpers in addition to the farmhands we hire when there’s too much work.

I should’ve thought of it myself, but I didn’t.

It was Celine’s idea. She learned about the program three years ago from a friend, and posted an ad for her organic produce farm the same day. Her first helper was a giggly middle-aged school teacher from Germany. The woman went above and beyond with every task she was given.

Since then, Celine has been hosting a nonstop influx of Frauen, with an occasional Dutch or Austrian woman thrown in. All of the ladies fall in love with Burgundy and with Celine’s farm. They delight in the food and wine she serves them. Most come back the following year. And some of them fall in love with Celine.

Anyhow, Ma and I decided to give the Workaway thingy a shot, despite our initial skepticism. When milk prices are low and labor costs high, you need to get creative to keep a big dairy farm profitable. Besides, only an idiot would pass up on a highly motivated workforce that’s happy with payment in kind and with beautiful landscapes for a bonus.

We welcomed our first volunteers two years ago, and never looked back.

Celine was right to insist.

“Hey, neighbor!” a familiar voice calls.

Speak of the devil.

Celine waves hello as she walks through the gate and gives Lorenzo a bright smile. “Hey, new guy!”

“I’m Lorenzo,” he says.

She fist-bumps me and cheek kisses Lorenzo. “My name is Celine. You alone here or with a partner?”

“My girlfriend Paola is inside.” He points to the cottage.

Celine turns to me. “Did you talk to her?”

“Paola?”

“No, silly! The cave woman.”

“Can we discuss that later?” I give Celine a pointed look.

She glances at Lorenzo. “Oh. Sure.”

Since we were teenagers, Celine and I have always kept each other updated on our progress—or lack thereof—with the objects of our fixations.

Celine’s is rarely a specific person. It’s a type. She digs men that are nerdy, skinny, sensitive and preferably bespectacled.

I blame it on Harry Potter and that actor, Romain Duris, both of whom she was hung up on as a teenager. Her more recent crushes—Tim from The Office UK, Jim from The Office US and Chandler from Friends—haven’t exactly helped either. I’ve tried to get her to appreciate guys like Terminator and Rambo by making her watch my favorite 90s action movies, but that was a total waste of time and effort.

Celine may be one tough cookie, but she’s hopelessly attracted to men who have less muscle than she does.

I’m not saying there’s something wrong with guys like that. Problem is they don’t go into farming. While there’s no shortage of musclemen among my brothers in plows, you’d be hard pressed to find a skinny nerd.

Come to think of it, you’d be just as hard-pressed to find stylish, eloquent and graceful female archeologists around here. I’m pretty sure there’s just one, and she’s afflicted with a strange condition that makes me invisible to her.

It would’ve been so much easier if Celine and I were attracted to each other!

We’d become lovers and I’d marry my spunky, dependable neighbor who hides a nice body under her checkered shirts and baggy jeans, and comes from a long line of farmers. To top it off, Ma loves Celine with all her heart. We could be very happy together…

But no, the naked guy Eros, God of Horniness, has a sick sense of humor.

My phone lights up with an alert sent to it by the calving sensor in the barn.

“Got to go,” I say, standing up. “Gabrielle is in labor.”

Celine draws her eyebrows. “You have an alert for that?”

“It’s a pretty nifty app,” I say with pride, heading to the barn. “Had it installed two weeks ago.”

Celine marches next to me. “Could be a false alarm.”

“I guess I’ll find out.”

I pick up the sanitizer, gloves, and wipes from the tool shed and race to the barn.

Celine follows, hot on my heels.

Turns out it isn’t a false alarm—Gabrielle is in labor. And, by the looks of her, it won’t be an easy one.

I had a feeling this “petite” heifer would have a tough time calving, and unfortunately, I was right. She’s fully dilated, her water sac has broken, and the calf has presented as it should—front feet first. But it’s too big. And that must be the reason it’s stuck in the birth canal.

Looks like a C-section situation to me.

“Time to call the vet,” I say to Celine.

“You’re sure we can’t handle it?” She crouches down and stares, trying to assess the odds. “You and Brigitte managed just fine last time.”

Yeah, I wish Ma was here now, but she’s on a long-overdue vacation in Provence.

Celine pulls out her phone. “I can snap a pic and send it to her—to get her opinion.”

My gaze shifts from Celine to the heifer.

I really don’t want to mess this up. Gabrielle and the calf are too valuable to take unnecessary risks.

“We don’t need my mother’s opinion,” I say, all doubt gone from my voice. “We need a vet.”

An hour later, it’s over.

I have to go fill out a dozen or so forms required by the EU red tape every time a calf is born, but the important thing here is that he was born. And he’s healthy as is his mother.

“So, how did the Grotto tour go?” Celine asks me when the vet is gone and we’ve tucked in Gabrielle and the calf.

“Same as last time. Clarissa ignored me so profoundly I lost my nerve.”

“You didn’t go up to her after the tour?”

I shake my head.

“Did you at least ask your question during the tour?”

“Nope. Didn’t have the guts. I’m giving up.”

“You’re pathetic, Nathan Girault.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Says the grown woman with Harry Potter posters everywhere in her house.”

“Yeah, well, at least I take action. On those rare occasions when I meet a man who fits the bill, I make sure to talk to him, to give him a chance to size me up, and to…” She lets out a heavy sigh.

“What?”

“Let me know he isn’t interested.”

“So, what’s the point?”

“The point is in not giving up. Because you never know.”

I shake my head.

“Promise me you’ll go back there next week and initiate a verbal exchange,” Celine says.

“What for? It’s hopeless. I bet that even if I do, she’ll just wave me off. I’m too rustic for her.”

“Then you’ll get closure.”

Good point. Besides, what do I have to lose?

“One last time, next week,” I say. “I promise.”

“That’s my boy!” Celine gives me a pat on the shoulder and goes home to cook dinner for her Frau.