Page 100 of The Professor's Wife

It was a little unsettling. My imagination liked to poke its head out at times like these and say,Anyone could be watching you right now, and you wouldn’t even know it.

I ignored it.

“There’s a lot you can do with a yard like this,” I said dreamily. “Put up some raised garden beds and grow some vegetables.”

“I didn’t know you were a green thumb.”

I smiled softly. “June is.”

June…

I blocked her out immediately.

“I noticed a shed. Is it functional?”

“It needs some work,” he replied tightly.

I studied him curiously. “That bad?”

“This place belonged to my old man,” he explained. “It needed a lot of work after he died. The shed is something I haven’t gotten around to. There’s been no need to change its purpose.”

Oliver never spoke about his dad. All I knew was that he had been an accomplished professor like Oliver. He had died of natural causes. From what I gathered, he’d been in his fiftieswhen he had Oliver. I wondered if his age had affected their relationship.

Oliver’s mother, on the other hand, had been his entire world until her death five years ago.

Fuck cancer,he liked to say.

So now I said it too.

Fuck cancer.

We ate slowly, talking about Rowe, about school, about nothing and everything. He expressed his passion for philosophy and his upcoming work, and there was so much pride in him when he spoke about how far many of his students had come.

The stars blinked above us, and the music from inside drifted out softly, making me feel like I was floating.

The alcohol was doing a good job of relaxing me. I knew that after dinner, he would take me to bed.

I was still adjusting to sex with Oliver. My body was often too tight and too difficult to unwind. He was a feverish lover, and I was often sore in two places: between my legs and in my throat.

Oliver delighted in it.

He loved how small he found me when he slid between my legs. Loved especially how my eyes burned when he took my throat.

I demolished my wine, needing it more than ever.

We were halfway through dinner when Oliver reached for the bottle to refill my glass—

He knocked it over.

The deep red liquid spilled across the tablecloth, dripping onto the wood below.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, jumping up.

I was already grabbing napkins. “It’s okay, Oliver. I’ve got it.”

He sounded sheepish. “I wanted this to be perfect.”

I knelt beside the table, blotting the wine from the cloth. “It is perfect, but I’m not sure we’ll get this stain out,” I said, laughing.