Page 21 of The Artist and the Muse

“And you want to keep up that lie now? Afteryoubroke up withme?” she hissed, throwing down the last pin. It slid off the vanity and landed on the floor.

“I didn’t do that for the reasons you think, Georgia.”

“Except you did. You got what you wanted from our relationship, and both of our problems were solved, so you left. You always leave. That’s what you do.”

I flinched.You always leave. That’s what you do.She was digging into an old wound there, knowing how things had gone down with my family. Now she was throwing my mistakes in my face, and I was terrified that she was right about me. That I would always be a coward.

She stood, and must have taken my silence as encouragement to continue. “You got your visa and your job and you managed to stay in the States. And you helped me make Sergio jealous at his engagement party. So we’re even. There’s nothing left for you topretendto be. You don’t get to come back into my life after breaking off our fake relationship and act like you care about me, George.”

“I do care about you. It was never pretend for me.”

“Then why did you break things off with me?” Her expression was flat, neutral, but her voice was laced with tears.

“It’s complicated. I can try to explain.” My voice sounded whiny and ineffectual even to myself.

She shoved at my chest. “You’ve had months to explain. I don’t want to hear it. I’ll get a cab home.”

“Georgia, please let me take you home—”

“I’llletyou walk out of here before I call security to escort you out. That’s what I’ll let you do. Okay?”

Sighing, I grabbed my motorcycle helmet and walked out of the building.

Chapter Eleven: Georgia Philips

After seeing Sergio at the photoshoot, I found a note on my dressing table with my name on it in his handwriting. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t rip it to shreds and throw it back in his face—maybe it was curiosity—but it was sitting in the bottom of my Birkin waiting for me to read it.

It must have been a week for annoying events. After my photoshoot last weekend, George summoned me to his office the following Monday to discuss the assignment I’d turned in.

All he’d written in the email wasYour writing sucks. Please leave my class and never write anything again.

Okay, I was being dramatic. He’d told me that he thought there were some things to improve and some issues with my assignment that could be tweaked. He’d given me two and a half marks out of five for a personal reflection.Two and a half.

Now I strode toward his office, marching past a half dozen girls loitering in the hallway gossiping or texting on their phones. The thought that they might have been there to see him too didn’t occur tome until I’d hammered on his door and they’d exclaimed with protests that I was cutting in line.

I shot them withering glares that definitely weren’t born of jealousy. Why should I care if George’s relatively young age, fame in the art world, and handsome face had drawn in a particular demographic of pretty, young, female students? It was none of my business how many women wanted to throw themselves at him.

He threw open the door, his hair dishevelled as if he’d been running his fingers through it. “Georgia. Come in.”

“I was here first,”one of the girls said, snapping her gum in a way that took a cheese grater to my taut nerves.

“There’s nothing wrong with your assignment, Melissa—”

“It’s Melinda—”

“Melinda, there’s nothing wrong with your assignment. Unlike Georgia’s. You can all wait until office hours actually begin, which isn’t for another fifteen minutes.”

They rolled their eyes and shuffled down the hallway. I heard one of them mutter, “I heard she got her uncle to get him the job here. No wonder he would play favourites withher.”

I wanted to defend myself, but George had already shut the door behind us.

His office seemed suddenly claustrophobic. I stalked toward the window and tried to shove it open.

“That doesn’t open,”he said, clicking on the fan next to his desk. It gave a whir that forced him to raise his voice as he said,“Trust me, I’ve tried.”

I guess that explained his t-shirt and cargo shorts. “Is that why you’re dressed like you’re about to go fishing instead of giving a lecture?”

He pointed at the garment bag hanging on the hook affixed to the door. “Don’t worry, I have a change of clothes in there. I know you enjoy seeing me in suits.”

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