Page 20 of The Artist and the Muse

I pulled a bobby pin out of my hair, wincing as it snagged on a knot that hadn’t been fully brushed out. “I’m not sure.”

“Want to go out with me and—oh my goodness!”

I tolerated Leana these days, but now I found her constant overreactions and dramatics irritating. Still, I turned to look in the direction she was directing her gaze in. Then, I saw him.Sergio. Standing next to a guy who definitely wasn’t any male model I knew who’d been involved in the shoot.

It was George. Carrying a motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm, his hair messy in a way that made me itch to run my fingers through it. He wore a leather jacket over jeans and shot me a stare that said all sorts of things I didn’t want to decipher or hear.

“Oh my goodness, indeed.”

Chapter Ten: George Devereaux

Sergio Cavalli was shorter than I remembered, or maybe it was the motorcycle boots I wore. His hair flopped over his eyebrows, and his gaze was sad and mopey, reminding me of Eeyore.

“George Devereaux, right?” he asked, extending a hand. “I don’t know if you remember me, but—”

“I know who you are.” He was the guy who had callously dumped Georgia with a two-word text message, then paraded his new fiancée in her face. So why was he here?

Rationally, I knew Georgia was working with him, and from the sounds of it, she was none too happy to see him, either. In fact, she’d probably given him a sterner talking to with her words than I could ever do with my fists—which I still really wanted to do.

“Cool. Um. Listen, I just wanted to apologize. I’m sure you and Georgia are married by now, and so—”

“You shouldn’t apologize to me. You should apologize to her, you pompous playboy.” I ground out the words through my teeth. I didn’t care that we were attracting attention. Sergio Cavalli was yet anotherirritating, spoiled brat who thought he could use charm and money to get whatever he wanted, including people. Including Georgia.

“Iwantedto apologize to her, but she wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”

“Perhaps you should save your apologies, then, since clearly she doesn’t want to hear them.” I pushed past him and walked toward Georgia, who was still sitting at the bank of makeup chairs, heavily made up with her hair half-undone. She sat next to an Asian girl who was vaguely familiar—her name was Leana or Livia or something.

I tried to ignore Sergio’s assumption that Georgia and I were married. The thought wound its way into my mind, pernicious as a weed, mocking me with the fact that we weren’t married. We’d never been real.

I’d come straight here from my office because Abigail had texted me. She was supposed to pick up Georgia from her photoshoot since Georgia’s motorcycle was in the shop, but was running late from an appointment and couldn’t make it. Pennington, the Steeles’ family driver, had the week off, so he couldn’t pick her up either. Agreeing too heartily at any opportunity to see Georgia again, I’d jumped on the chance.

Now it seemed I’d come at the most opportune—or most coincidental—time. Or perhaps Pastor Tony would have called it providential. Leana—I was becoming more sure that Georgia’s friend was named Leana—got out of the makeup chair next to Georgia’s, darting a curious glance between the two of us. She walked toward the exit, leaving me alone with Georgia. Sergio hadn’t followed me, thankfully.

“What are you doing here?” Georgia asked me. She met my eyes in the mirror, but didn’t turn around as she kept taking the pins out of her hair, dropping them onto the vanity with aplink.

“Abby couldn’t make it since she’s running late from an appointment. So she asked me to come get you. What, no ‘thank you for giving me a ride, George?’”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Fine. You can say, ‘thank you for giving me a ride, Mr. Devereaux.’”

She screwed up her face as she yanked another bobby pin out with a wince.Plink. “Absolutely not.”

“Sergio Cavalli seems to be under the mistaken impression that you want to hear his apology.” I’d never seen Georgia at work before. I took in her makeup and hairdo, and how they contrasted with her simple black leggings and t-shirt. She looked beautiful, but not quite like herself.

She took out another pin, but as she did so, a strand of her hair snagged on her necklace. A frustrated growl escaped her lips.

Without thinking, I gently tugged her hair free from the clasp. My fingers brushed her neck, and I could’ve sworn she shivered under my touch.

“Thanks,” she said, so softly I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t been studying her reflection in the mirror and watching her lips move.

“You’re welcome.” The softness in her tone and gaze surprised me. But I clung to that subtle shift in her body language—her shoulders relaxing the slightest bit—like it was a lifeline. I was in over my head, but if she was the ocean, I’d let myself drown. “Do you actually want to talk to Sergio? I can call him over.”

Much as it would have agitated me to see them talking, I wanted her to have the choice. It wasn’t as if I had any say over her decisions anyway. We weren’t in a relationship. I was only the lecturer for one of her classes. Not a friend or a boyfriend, and definitely not her fiancé. Just anotherstranger.

“Why is it any of your business, George?” Whatever hope I had been harbouring faded to dust as she spoke. “You’re not myfiancéanymore. You’re just my Art History teacher.”

“He thinks we’re married now. He said so when I talked to him.”

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