Page 2 of Prosecco with My Professor
I can’t help it; a giggle slips out, and I clap my hand over my mouth before it becomes a full-on laugh.
“You!” Sara says, pointing at me. “Go talk to him!” She jabs her thumb over her shoulder, and I groan.
I throw a pout at her, but then look over her shoulder. The man is still standing there. He’s sipping from a rotund glass of red wine, listening to his friend, and as he swallows, his prominent Adam’s apple visible, his eyes catch mine.
He smiles, and it’s slow, like molasses. It’s got a hint of a smirk to it and no teeth. This man is confident, like he knows he can give me an actual, honest-to-god, non-vibrator-triggered orgasm.
It’s been at least a decade since I’ve had one of those.
“Okay.” I draw in a breath and then take a sip of my Prosecco. “What do I say?”
“I always start with hi,” Jade says helpfully, and I pinch her bicep. Jade yelps and rubs her arm but laughs as I stand, gather my courage, and walk toward the bar.
There’s a space two seats down from the man I want to talk to, so I stand at it, giving myself a moment to think about what I’m going to say. The couple between us is like a protective barrier between me and the unknown.
I sip my wine, the bubbles dancing on my tongue. My friends have been encouraging me to get on dating apps, and I can see why: for an introvert like me, how on earth did we ever pick up people in bars?
“I thought you might be the Prosecco,” a voice next to me says. It’s deep, and the accent is there, but not thick. His voice rises and falls; the r of Prosecco rolls.
I turn, and it’s him. The people between us have disappeared, and he stands a few feet away.
“Excuse me?” My cheeks warm.Hesaid something tome.
“I heard your drink order,” he says, stepping closer. “I thought, ‘those women know their Italian wine’, and then I tried to guess which was yours. And,” he pauses, holding out a hand and tilting his head. “I was right.”
I smile into my glass and take another sip. He’s flirting. That’s flirting, right? Maybe?
It’s so subtle, and I’m used to Jade, who is an outrageous flirt and makes her intentions super clear from the start.
“Why did you think I was the Prosecco? Why not the Fran…”
“Franciacorta,” he supplies, lip twitching.
Oof, I like the way he says that. “Yes. That one. Or the key…”
“Chianti.”
“Chianti,” I echo. I might keep naming wines over and over to hear him repeat the words back.
“Have you not seen the Hannibal Lecter movie?”
“No, because,” I dramatically shudder, “A, I don’t do horror movies, and B, that movie came out when I was probably…nine?” I guess. “Hardly appropriate for a child.”
“I saw it when it came out. I was twenty-three, and I still don’t think it was age-appropriate,” he says, and I chuckle. “To answer your question, I thought you were the Prosecco because you looked like light. Like bubbles.”
My cheeks heat. “Well, I’m not a bubbly person. Sorry to disappoint.”
His lips roll inward, and he gives a small shake of his head. “Bubbles are not bubbly or shy; they justare. I wouldn’t dream of trying to push the whimsies of men on something so beautiful.” His gaze on me is pointed.
Words escape me. Is this real?
Another point in the favor of Italian men because I can’t picture any of the American men I know back home as having the ability to pull a compliment like that off. I can’t picture them even using the phrasewhimsies of men. Maybe I just know the wrong men.
I realize my mouth is slightly open, and I’ve been staring. With a click, I close my jaw and extend my hand. “I’m Emma.”
He takes my hand in his, and it’s not over-the-top; there’s no kissing of the knuckles or anything so flamboyant, but the handshake is firm and warm—like I’m in expert hands now. It sends a shiver up my spine.
“Santo,” he says.
