Page 13 of The Artist and the Muse

George was quicker, though, grabbing his and handing a wad of euros to the cashier.

“I’m the one who wanted to make pasta, shouldn’t I be the one buying the ingredients?” I piped up as he took his change from the cashier.

“Georgia, it’s bad enough that I’m letting you come to my apartment to cook for me. Must you also pay for our groceries?”

“Are you trying to be a gentleman? I wasn’t aware that we were dating.” I arched an eyebrow at him.

He ran a hand through his hair. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean it like that.”

My heart dropped in my chest, free-falling. What had I been expecting—for a guy I’d known barely a week to protest that we were in a long-term, committed relationship and he would never dare let me pay for a date? I’d already accepted the impermanence of our relationship. Why was I still getting my hopes up?

“Well, thanks, then.”

“You’re welcome.” He lifted the paper grocery bags into his arms easily, and I didn’t miss the way his biceps flexed under his tightly fitted t-shirt. “Now, let’s go on our pasta-making quest, shall we?”

I smiled and didn’t bother trying to take one of the grocery bags from him. I knew he’d only protest and insist that he could handle it. We walked a few blocks to the apartment he was renting and up three flights of stairs. His breathing only became slightly laboured as wefinally made it to the top floor. George set down the bags and unlocked the door.

As I walked into his apartment, I was struck by two things.

First, the number of canvases and paint supplies covering almost every available surface.

Second, the collection of old jazz albums next to the vinyl record player.

“You like Bing Crosby?” I asked. George followed me with the bags. I took one of them from him and set it on the thankfully empty kitchen counter.

“I also like Dean Martin, but I thought playingThat’s Amoremight be a little too cliche,” he said, putting the other groceries on the counter after kicking off his boots.

“No, I mean…” Most guys my age liked country or hip hop songs. I knew my irritating cousin Alexander—whom I loved to annoy—liked rap, which I didn’t hate but didn’t love either. “Never mind.”

I unpacked the groceries and found a washcloth to wipe down the counter we would be using. Aside from the paint brushes and canvases everywhere, he was rather neat. His jackets were hung up neatly on a pegboard by the door. A keyring hung on the hook next to them, and his shoes were lined up neatly in a boot tray. Even his spice cabinet, though sparse, was alphabetically arranged in two rows.

He was a man of contradictions.

“No, I want to hear whatever thought you were going to have,” George said, coming up next to me and patting the counter dry with another cloth.

“I’m just surprised you like oldies.”

“Well, I am somewhat older than you. I think. Unless you have an age-defying skincareroutine.”

“How old are you?” I hadn’t asked him that, telling myself that the less I knew about him the better, lest we fall madly in love. Well, I was sure his age wouldn’t be a factor in me falling madly in love with him, but still. The fewer attachments I formed with this man, the better. I certainly couldn’t kiss him.

“I’m twenty-five.” So four years older than me. “And you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“What an insurmountable age gap. How fortunate that we’re not dating, then.”

He didn’t say anything more about it, making me regret my comment as he handed me an apron. “Here. I don’t want you to get your nice clothes dirty.”

I glanced down at my cutoff shorts and peasant blouse. They were hardly my fanciest clothes, but I appreciated the sentiment anyways. I looped the apron over my head and made quick work of the strings, tying them around my waist in a bow at the front.

He picked up the other apron, which was white and stained with what appeared to be splotches of paint. I realized that it wasn’t necessary for him to have two aprons, and the one I was wearing was much nicer and newer, with a cute pattern of lemons on a sky-blue background. It still had creases in it from being folded into a square, for Pete’s sake.

“George, did you buy this apron for me just for tonight?” I plucked at the cotton fabric.

He had pulled out a kitchen scale and was looking over at me with a guilty expression. “I plead the fifth.”

“You’re not even American.”

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