Prosecco with My Professor

Chapter 1

“Two Franciacorta,one Chianti, and one Prosecco,” the bartender says as he puts four wine glasses in front of me, and thank god, it was a repeat order from before. I barely know any of those words; before coming to Europe, my wine selection typically consisted of red, white, or “champagne,” which was definitely not champagne.

Not that I have had any champagne since moving here or that I know what the differences are, but still. I guess at forty-two years old, it’s about time I broadened my horizons, so maybe buying some actual champagne should be on my to-do list.

“Grazie,” I say, wincing because it doesn’t sound as sexy on my tongue as it does his.

I thought it was a joke or inaccurate that Italian men are sexier, but in the brief time that I’ve been in Rome, I think that’s true.

It must be the heady combination of the accent, the dark hair and olive skin, and the way they dress. The same was true with Spanish men in Madrid, where I just spent a month living with one of my best friends.

Speaking of Jade, she sidles up next to me at the bar, her long hair up in a ponytail that swings against my elbow. “Let me help.” She grabs two glasses with one hand while I grab the other two. With her free hand on my elbow, she turns us back to our table where our other best friends, Sara and Tessa, sit.

I make a point not to look at the older man who smiled at me a few minutes ago.

Jade, however, is like a mind reader, especially with anything sex-related. She leans in with a whisper. “You have your eye on the silver fox down at the end of the bar?”

I glance over my shoulder to find him watching me, so I quickly snap my head forward again. This man is the perfect example of how stylish Italian men can be. The wavy, thick hair on the top of his head and his dark beard are salt-and-pepper and groomed. He’s wearing a fitted navy blazer, but I lack the sartorial knowledge to describe why it looks so damn good on him, whereas my ex in a navy blazer looked like a country club dweeb.

Movement catches my gaze, and I glance over to find Jade wriggling her fingers at the silver fox.

I push her hand down as we arrive at the table. “Stop encouraging him,” I hiss.

“Why?” Jade’s smile turns from slightly flirty to fond as she looks at me.

“You’re giving him false hope,” I say.

“Honey, men are going to always hope to sleep with you.” Jade, the shortest of us, huffs as she climbs onto the chair at our high-top table. She’s five-four, with bronze skin and long dark hair that has a white streak in it. “You’re beautiful and charming. Hope isn’t something you give them; they already have it. And any guy worth going home with is going to know that having a conversation or flirtation with you is not a consolation prize. A man should be so honored.”

I blush and glance at the man again. “It’s not that I don’t want to sleep with someone.” I lean in and drop my voice to a whisper. “It’s just that it’s been so long. It feels like…like being revirginized.”

“That’s definitely not a thing,” Jade interjects, pointing a finger at me. Sara and Tessa sip their wine, amused. The four of us have been best friends for ages. We met at Sara’s yoga classes and then started going out for a drink afterward and our friendships blossomed from there. With Jade and I having lived together for the past month, we’ve become even closer, which is humorous since the two of us are opposites, at least when it comes to relationships.

“I know, I know. You’ve made us all read the book, Jade.” The book on women’s sexuality that Jade gave each of us a few years ago debunked a lot of myths and taught me way more about sex than twenty-three years of marriage did. Living with Jade taught me even more. I’ve only just started thinking about dating again, and she helped me think through some of my anxieties–what if a woman I was interested in wasn’t queer, or what if a man was put off by my height.

It also made me a little sad. Like I was missing out on something I hadn’t known was possible. Because while my marriage lasted for twenty-three years, my sex life with my husband didn’t.

But I’m here in Rome, about to start an International MBA program, turning over a new leaf. Why shouldn’t that extend to my sex life, too?

“I’m just saying,” Jade points out, “that you have us all here. If you want to go talk to that guy, we can have, like, a signal. An eye roll if we need to rescue you from the conversation, or a wink if you’re going to go home with him.”

“And then we can make sure we have his information,” Sara says, “just like y’all did with my roommate. And if anything goes wrong, we can help you.” She recently moved in with a total stranger, but it’s been almost a month now, and it is going well.

Jade blinks at Sara, possibly surprised that she’s agreeing with her.

“But only if you’re comfortable with it,” Sara adds. Her hair, dark brown with a few gray hairs—unlike my completely gray hair—is up in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a chic dress that shows off her yoga-toned body.

“Thanks, Sara,” I say, but Jade hasn’t taken her eyes off Sara.

“Hang on,” Jade says, and now Sara has the full brunt of her attention. “Sara’s been awfully relaxed this weekend.” Jade twists her mouth to the side and wiggles an eyebrow. “Are you getting some frustration out somehow?”

“No!” Sara protests. “I am not sleeping with my roommate.”

“Wow,” Tessa says, leaning her elbow on the table and propping her chin in her hand, mirroring Jade. Her light blonde hair perfectly frames her face and real diamond earrings sparkle in the low light of the bar. “Jade didn’t say anything about your roommate.”

“That’s not… I just meant…”

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. He said something to me.

“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 just are. 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 phrase whimsies 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.