Page 20 of Prosecco with My Professor
Santo puts both stretched out paws over one shoulder and moves a hand under her butt, supporting her. Miss Zola curls up, and they both look at me.
Miss Zola looks smug as hell.
Santo looks exhausted.
“Sorry. For the pepper spray and the door.”
“Yes. Okay.” He takes a big breath, and his cat headbutts his cheek. He says something else to her in pretty Italian, but it’s too low for me to even guess what it is.
“So,” he says to me, his accent thicker than ever. “We are neighbors.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m your professor.”
“Yes.”
“Merda.”
My sentiments exactly.
9
Santo
It takesa few hours for my eyes to feel normal again. Zola is back in my apartment, Emma is back in her apartment, and I’ve had some time to calm down.
It’s much easier to think with a clear head, though after a long day and being pepper-sprayed, my eyes are tired enough to give me a headache. I’m on the couch, wearing my reading glasses and trying to read a recently published paper on environmentalism in the battery industry.
It’s also much easier to relax when I’ve got a four-kilo purring ball of fluff sitting on my chest. Zola in her favorite position, ass in my lap and face-planted between my pecs. Lord knows how she breathes.
Emma had been scared. It hadn’t really been my intention to chase her down. I honestly don’t know what I’d been thinking. But looking back at it now, I can see that I made her uncomfortable.
And in her new home, no less.
With a sigh, I move Zola off my chest. She hisses at me, but she’s all smoke and no roast. She’ll get over it.
A few moments later—after I make sure Zola remains inside and the door closes properly—I’m knocking at Emma’s apartment. There’s a smell in the air—sweet and warm. I think someone is baking.
Emma opens the door. She’s changed into loose cotton pants and a T-shirt. It’s a tight T-shirt that says “Save the Ta-Tas” on it with big pink handprints over her breasts. I tear my eyes away and back up to her face. Her cheeks are rosy, and the smell of sugar and spices gets stronger.
“Hi,” she says, a little guarded.
Right. Out with it. “I wanted to apologize.”
Her eyes widen.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Emma’s body relaxes against the door. “You actually didn’t—” she starts, but a timer going off in her apartment interrupts her. “Oh, hang on, that’s the cookies. Why don’t you come in?”
She walks away, leaving the door open, and I step into the apartment. Like mine, the ceiling is bare wood rafters, but that’s where the similarities end. This is one of the unrenovated apartments offered at a reduced rate to students. The kitchen is along the right wall and small—almost more kitchenette than full kitchen—and there’s a loveseat and low table facing away from me and toward the outside wall, with a tall window over a dining table.
On the armrest of the loveseat is an open laptop, and a chilled glass of wine sits opposite it on the coffee table, freshly poured and condensing.
Noises draw my attention back to Emma, who is pulling a cooking sheet out of the efficiency oven using kitchen towels to protect her hands.
“It smells good,” I offer as she places the hot pan on the stovetop.
