Page 69 of Prosecco with My Professor
“Veuve Clicquot.”
“Yes, that one!” I sound out the name, and he repeats it for me until I can pronounce it correctly.
“The widow,” he adds.
“What?”
“That’s what veuve means. Widow Clicquot. A woman founded the house.”
“Really? When?” I have no idea how long it would take to grow a champagne empire that’s so recognizable.
“Oh,” Santo thinks. “Seventeen seventies, maybe? You should look her up. She was groundbreaking.”
Jesus. My country, if it was even a country yet, was a baby when that wine was made. “I will,” I promise. “Anyway, I didn’t love it, so I stayed away from bubbly for a while. But my friends and I often met at a wine bar, and I tried a few different things before I had my first glass of Prosecco, and I love it. So no, I won’t turn a glass down.”
Our legs are touching slightly, too, and I shift, and my foot rubs against his. He nudges it, and somehow, my leg ends up over his, my thighs slightly spread and my heel under his calf.
“Do you not want to talk about your dad?” I bring the conversation back.
“It’s fine,” Santo says. “Do you remember in the first term you told me you were trying to prove to yourself and your ex that you could do it without him?”
I nod.
“That’s all my father desired from me. He wanted me to have nothing to do with his business, so he was constantly pushing me away from it. At the time, allIwanted was to be spending time with him, and all he did was work. Looking back, I see my father was perhaps jealous that I had achieved so much. Even my successes were not mine because everyone knew who I was, and his name carried a lot of weight. So, you Googling me and learning about my past is not troublesome. I’m surprised you didn’t already know, actually.”
“Your bio at the school has no mention of it.”
“Ah, yes. Well, perhaps I wrote it while in the mood to snub my father.” He’s quiet for a moment before he switches the glass to his far hand and lifts the near one, wrapping it around my shoulders.
“What about your parents?” Santo asks.
I tell him about my mom, who died when I was a newlywed, and my dad, who passed away a few years ago. He’d remarried and was living in Houston, and we had grown distant. I ask about Santo’s mom—I know she died years ago, thanks to my internet sleuthing—and am told a sad story of a woman scorned who never recovered.
We should discuss something lighter. There are a few sips of Prosecco left in my glass, but I’m saving it so we don’t feel the need to get up yet. “Where’s Zola?” I haven’t seen the cat at all since Santo let her loose in the house.
“She has her own room.”
“Like the loft back in the city?” I tease.
“Even nicer,” he admits. “She’s a little spoiled here.”
“Here?” I tilt my head to look at Santo. “She’s a little spoiled in the city. She must be a queen here.” Santo chuckles. His empty wine glass is on the bedside table, and his free hand comes under the sheet and strokes the inside of my thigh, not so high that he’s going to accidentally touch between my legs, but enough to give me shivers.
And then my stomach rumbles. Santo chuckles and my body bounces. I finally toss back the last of the wine as Santo slips out of bed.
“I got you something,” he says, surprising me.
“You did?”
I untangle myself from the sheets while Santo opens a wardrobe and pulls out an occupied hanger. On it is a long bathrobe—light gray with a barely-there geometric pattern on the lapels. There are matching slippers, too, and when I reach out and touch the material, it’s so fine and soft it feels like silk.
“It’s cashmere,” Santo says, “so you’ll have to be careful washing it or maybe have a cleaner take care of it. But I thought perhaps if I have one weekend with you, I want you to be warm and comfortable and as close to naked as possible.”
He helps me slip it on and tie the belt around my waist. I don’t think I’ve owned anything so luxurious.
“Warmer, yes?”
“Yes,” I agree.
