Page 12 of The Artist and the Muse

“Seb, she’s with me.” George folded his arms over his chest, and the protectiveness on his face and how he edged himself slightly in front of me warmed my heart. There was no real malice in his tone, however, only firm warning.

He didn’t have anything to worry about. Sebastian Cavalli seemed far too arrogant and shallow for my taste, from his polished shoes to his vulgarly oversized Rolex. I had never liked men who sized me up based on appearance only and then attempted to judge me or flatter me based on that one characteristic. Plus, I had to go back home and pretend to date his cousin, Sergio. There was no way I could get involved with Sebastian; I didn’t even want to be friendly to him.

“I’m not interested in your yacht, Sebastian. I’m only curious as to what a New Yorker like yourself is doing here,” I said.

“Visiting my family’s ancestral home,” he said.

“And how do you and George know each other?” I glanced between the two of them; the two men couldn’t have been more different. Whereas George was scruffy and muscled, clad in casual clothing, Sebastian had a lean build and an air of refinement that made me think he knew more than he let on. Or perhaps I was just judging him by the rumours I’d heard. Heaven knew there was endless gossip about the Cavallis swirling around my family.

“We run in the same artistic circles. Believe it or not, Sebastian here has a penchant for making papier-mâché sculptures,” said George.

“Really?” I couldn’t tell if George was joking. I tried to picture the man in front of us elbow-deep in glue and pulpy paper, but the image failed to appear.

“Really. I’d love for you to see my studio if you like.”

“I’m good, thanks.” His invitation sounded like an unwise one to accept.

He shrugged, unbothered. “I’ll see the two of you around then.”

We watched him depart, and I was determined not to let meeting him spoil my mood.

Chapter Six: Georgia Philips

Afew days after our first date, I found myself with George Devereaux in an Italian supermarket. Abigail and I had gone to all the tourist hotspots and done enough shopping to fill an entire suitcase, and then she was meeting up with her boyfriend, Prince Emani, tonight.

“You’ve been living in Rome for months and you haven’t made your own pasta yet?” I chided George. “That seems like an outrage if you ask me.”

He chuckled, unfazed by my dramatics as we pushed our cart down the grocery store aisle. “It’s pasta-making. One of the most difficult arts there is, right after rocket science.”

“Rocket science is a science, not an art. It’s right there in the name—” I stopped when I realized he was trying to rile me up.

“You’re cute when you’re angry.”

I’d been called a lot of things in my lifetime in regard to my appearance. Beautiful was one of them, or gorgeous, or even sexy. Butcutehad never been a go-to descriptor, at least not since I was six. “Cute?”

“Yeah. You put one hand on your hip like you’re trying to look intimidating. It’s cute.”

I realized I was in fact putting one hand on my hip and quickly dropped it with a blush. “I just can’t believe you haven’t made pasta before.”

“If you were living in a land where delicious pasta was plentiful, I don’t think you’d be rushing to make your own sad, pitiful version of baked ziti, either.”

I shook my head. At home, I enjoyed cooking and baking, ever since I’d started making most of the meals for me and my mom growing up. So the fact that George hadn’t even attempted to make his own pasta while living in Italy was foreign to me.

“I’m rushing right now.” I pushed the cart a little faster. “See? Rushing to make pasta.”

“Does that mean you’re trying to makefast-a?” He laughed at his own bad pun.

I groaned, probably a little too loudly, as we passed through the dairy aisle. He grabbed eggs—they were unrefrigerated here, something I would never get used to—and heavy cream.

I checked the recipe I’d found on Pinterest that promised to be the easiest for beginners staying in Italy. Part of me felt guilty for not spending enough time with Abigail during our trip here, but I knew she would understand. Her boyfriend was in town, too, after all.

Not that George was or would ever be my boyfriend. I knew his type: charming, but not one for commitment. I didn’t want to break his heart or mine by insisting that we establish something permanent when I knew we could only be temporary. Besides, he lived in Rome, and I lived in New York.

“Georgia?” George nudged me. “Everything okay?”

I blinked. “Yeah, everything’s great.” I read over the recipe one more time. “Where can we find semolina flour?”

He scanned the aisles for the flour. After we gathered all the ingredients for pasta-making, we also grabbed some stuff for making Italian hot chocolate, which I had always wanted to try. Then we pushed our cart toward the checkout stand, and I pulled out my wallet.

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