Page 11 of The Artist and the Muse

I find you attractive, I wanted to say, but I’d never been one to show all my cards to a man. Even a man for whom, I had to admit, a British accent would only be the cherry on an already-sweet cake. I was a fan of Mr. Darcy, after all. “So who’s the real sculptor if it’s not Michelangelo or Raphael?”

His hazel eyes lit up as he took in my question and began rambling about what was probably his favourite subject. He sat on the low railing wrapping around the fountain, stretching his long legs out in front of him and watching the water as it danced. “It was designed by Giacomo della Porta, an architect. Although, the artist who carved the men holding up the basin is the sculptor, Taddeo Landini, and it was commissioned by a nobleman, Muzzio Mattei.”

I smiled to myself, enjoying his musical lilt of the Italian names as I sat next to him, leaving a respectable gap between us.

“I’m boring you with all these names, aren’t I?”

I shook my head. “Not at all. You haven’t told me who designed the turtles yet, though.”

“It’s said that Bernini, who created the turtles, used casts of a real turtle to make them lifelike. Isn’t that cool? Originally, instead ofturtles, there were dolphins, but because the fountain was having problems with poor water pressure, they had to remove them. So they added the turtles later, about a hundred years after the fountain was first created.”

“What else do you know about the fountain, Mr. Tour Guide?” Tipping my head back, I stared into the peachy glow of the sunset.

I marvelled at how a week ago, I’d been in New York. My mom had said goodbye to me in our shared apartment, over the hustle and bustle of city traffic through our cracked-open windows. She’d hugged me too tightly, kissed me on the cheek, and wished me a tearful goodbye. Now, I was in one of the most romantic cities in the world with a man who I hadn’t laid eyes on until this morning.

“Well, it was rumoured that the fountain was built in one night. A nobleman, who had gone bankrupt due to gambling debts, made a promise to his potential—and rich—father-in-law that he would look out the window and see the fountain there the next morning. His promise came true and he was allowed to marry the wealthy man’s daughter.”

My lips set in a thin line, and I rested my hands on the rail, pursing my lips as I examined the fountain more closely. “I don’t know if I love that story.”

“Not the most optimistic fairytale, is it?” George rubbed the back of his neck. “It definitely seems unwise to sell your daughter’s hand in marriage to a man who’s bound to waste all the money he gets in the bargain.”

“Mm-hmm.” I didn’t want to think of New York and the man waiting for me there—the one who was a world away from this one. The one I would soon be contractually obligated to pretend to date forfame. “They look so sad.”

“What?” George glanced over me, a divot taking up residence between his brows. “Who?”

“The statues of the men.” It seemed silly to say a bronze sculpture had emotion, but these did. “Like they’re carrying the weight of the world.”

“Maybe they really want to reach the turtles but they’re just not tall enough.”

“Is this the artistic analysis I’m getting from the man who compared himself to art’s Gordon Ramsay?”

“I’m off the clock.” He grinned at me, a playful flash of a smile that made me feel like I could see all the way down to the carefree boy he must have been in childhood. Before life’s responsibilities had burdened him, as they did to all of us. I shook my head. Who was I to say that? I barely knew the guy. “I’m hanging up my artist’s apron—”

“You wear an apron to paint?” The image that popped into my head made me splutter a laugh.

He looked affronted. “Of course. I can’t afford to get paint on my clothes.”

“Yes, your ten-thousand dollar Armani suits must remain pristine,” I deadpanned, staring pointedly at his ripped jeans and flannel shirt.

“If you must know, doing laundry here is a hassle. Wearing the apron means I have one garment slathered in paint and wash it occasionally. It’s easier than washing my clothes every day.”

“So, you’re hanging up your artist’s apron.” I nudged his side. “What are you now, then?”

His eyes met mine, and they appeared to see past the veil of carefully applied makeup and braided hair to who I really was. The girl I’d been a long time ago, before I’d begun modelling and before the world had handed me a plaster mold of a label to slip into. A label that said Iwas nothing more than my appearance. “I’m a man, standing next to a woman, hoping she wants to see me again.”

I didn’t consider myself a shy wallflower, but something about George Devereaux was slowly, almost imperceptibly, changing how I saw myself. So while New York Georgia would have grabbed his shirt collar and kissed him, Italy Georgia was keenly aware of the look in his eyes. The way his hand hovered next to mine, the barest brush of our pinkies making goosebumps rise on my arms. The way his gaze dropped to my mouth—

“George! George, is that you?”

We both whipped our heads over to see an Italian man waving at us. He was clean shaven, clad in a pale blue polo shirt and white shorts, sauntering toward us from the other side of the square.

I turned away from the fountain and stepped back from George, feeling as though a wall of ice had been erected between us. What was I thinking? I couldn’t kiss a man, let alone fall for him, just because he’d said some poetic words and offered me a beautiful painting. I had a life and a fake boyfriend waiting for me back in New York. “Do you know him?”

“Unfortunately.” George’s grimace turned into a playful grin as he turned to wave at the man. “Buonasera, Sebastian!”

I frowned. As the man came closer, he looked familiar. I didn’t think we’d ever met, but I’d definitely seen his face before. Was he a celebrity? “George, is that…”

“Sebastian Cavalli. It’s a pleasure to meet you,signorina.” The stranger—who I now recognized as belonging to one of New York’s wealthiest and most scandalous families—bent over my hand and kissed it. I could have sworn I heard George let out an audible growl. “I must say, you are beautiful. What are you doing with this riffraff?Are you certain I can’t entice you away from him? I have a yacht with a fine view of the Amalfi Coast—”

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