Page 22 of Prosecco with My Professor
Fuck. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. You had seemed into it?—”
“I was, I was. Or at least, into the idea of it. I mean, I was very turned on.” The tips of her ears are pink now too. “But when it comes down to it, I just don’t think I’m ready yet. I, uh, haven’t been with anyone since my husband. Ex-husband,” she adds quickly.
I hesitate before asking. “How long has it been?”
“Oh, um, like four years since he’s done that.”
What!?No one has gone down on this woman in four years? That’s a long time to go without, and clearly there are some mental blocks she needs to work through.
Then a thought occurs to me. “When did you get divorced?”
“A little over a year.”
So, the divorce is recent. And that meansyearsof…
Okay, this is a dangerous train of thought to be having, and our conversation has veered into inappropriate territory. Emma must think so, too, because she turns back into the kitchen, brusquely pulling out a spatula and some aluminum foil, bundling up cookies for me.
“Do we need to do something at the school to protect your job?” Emma asks, glancing at me while folding the foil.
I scrape my hand over my beard and think. A few years ago we had a professor who quit to be with a student, but otherwise, there is no policy against relationships. Italy is not quite the United States for protecting gender equality.
Plus, we have a new program director, and I’m not sure how he will enforce policies. Even worse, what if he took advantage of her vulnerability? A few years ago, it came out that a former student had filed a sexual harassment claim at her company. Instead of resolving the issue, the HR Manager harassed her himself.
It would be a risk to approach him, especially since nothing further will happen with Emma.
“No,” I say. “My job will be fine.”
Emma agrees quickly, and hands me the cookie bundle. “Here you go. Thank you for the apology and again, I am so sorry about the pepper spray. And for running out.”
I take the dismissal and wish Emma a good night before stepping out of her apartment and closing the door behind me. Back at home, I bite into a still-warm cookie, the melted chips flooding my mouth with dark chocolate. Damn, this really is a good cookie.
I sigh. She’s beautiful, she bakes, she’s sweet and shy and sexually repressed. I’m going to see her frequently.
And she’s absolutely one hundred percent off limits.
10
Emma
The next week flies by,and I barely see Santo. That doesn’t mean he isn’t in my thoughts—there’s always a twinge of disappointment when I shut my apartment door behind me every day without having seen him—but it’s a busy week, and that’s probably for the best. I already thought Santo was sexy, but when he came by my apartment to apologize wearing glasses it took him to a whole other level. And that is not what I need to be thinking about.
This first week of school was boot camp, a week where we got oriented about our classes, the campus and the structure of the upcoming year.
The second week is a Growth and Technologies week, which sounded a bit like putting the cart before the horse to me, but it ended up being something I could really relate to. It was about pivoting and taking advantage of technologies, and despite being one of the oldest students, I felt like I had a leg up.
My three grown children keep me fairly up to date on what the cool kids are doing. Parker and I had worked together to create the TikTok channel and online store for Second Chances Boutique. I knew about pivoting, at least the mentality of it.
One thing I missed, though, was the daily phone call with my friends over lunch. It wasn’t that uncommon for one of us to skip—like if Jade or Tessa had a lunch meeting or something—but making the call between classes was challenging.
I miss my friends deeply, though. I am not sure if it is because I am so obviously American or much older than everyone else, but the students are cliquey so far. Our classes are in English, but most people speak English as a second language. My language app is teaching me basic Italian, but I haven’t picked it up in a few days, and while it would help me run my errands, it wouldn’t help me make friends in class.
So, when I sit down on Saturday, two weeks into my MBA program, I have a lot to catch my friends up on. But they are way more interested in talking about my neighbor-slash-professor than anything else.
“Is he actually going to be teaching you anything?” Tessa asks.
“Yes,” I answer. I’ve been so busy talking that my sandwich—tomato, mozzarella, and arugula on a baguette, the ingredients of which I bought from a few shops down the road—is getting mushy. “The first term I have him for Business Analytics.”
“That’s the next five weeks, right?”
