Page 22 of The Artist and the Muse

“I know you didn’t ask me to come here to practice your cheesy pickup lines, Mr. Devereaux. Why did you give me a C minus?”

His brows quirked. “I didn’t realize you would take my feedback so personally.”

“And I didn’t realize that it was necessary for you to critique a 500-word essay in person instead of through an email.” The volume of the fan rose, directing a blast of cool air toward me that made goosebumps rise on my arms.

“I just want you to succeed in this class, Georgia. As I do for all my other students.”

“Then why didn’t you makemewait until office hours start, if I’m just like any other student to you?”I asked, perching on his desk. It was meticulously clean, almost like no one had taken up residence there. Other than a laptop and a notebook I suspected was a sketchbook, next to a small pen holder and desk tray, the wooden surface was bare.

“Do you want me to answer that, Georgia, or do you want me to explain my feedback on your assignment?“he asked. “We only have time for one of those things.”

“Feedback, please.” Annoyance at him and myself rose in my chest. Why hadn’t I just taken the time to make up something about my personal feelings on the topic? Then I wouldn’t have to be here, even if I would have been lying.

He sighed, picking up his laptop that sat next to my thigh, his hand coming dangerously close to brushing my leg. After punching in a few keystrokes, he turned the computer to face me. “Your portion describing the techniques Caravaggio used was perfectly fine. You demonstrated a clear understanding of how Caravaggio pioneered theuse of chiaroscuro. What bothers me is that you couldn’t write a single line of personal reflection.”

“Call me crazy, but I don’t think the use of light and shadows has anylightto shed on my life.”

The George I met in Italy so many years ago would have laughed at my pun, a full-bodied laugh that would have sent shivers down my spine. He would have stared at me like he didn’t know whether to kiss me or groan in frustration.

This George put down his laptop on a nearby empty bookshelf and shoved his hands in his pockets like he was holding something back. Holding himself back from me.

“I think it has more than you’d think.”His voice was deep, almost gravelly, and he rubbed his trimmed beard as he stared out the closed window.

This George was tamed, neatly groomed.ThatGeorge had once kissed me with passionate abandon and what tasted like love. He’d thrown caution to the wind to take me on a motorcycle and whisk me on a grand tour of Italy. I’d once known every soul-deep secret about this man. Now, he was a stranger to me.

“I don’t have time to decode your puzzles. Just tell me what I did wrong. Or what you think I should have written about.” Folding my arms across my chest, I stared at him. My heels grazed the linoleum.

“Why not talk about your modelling experience? Or photography? Tie it to something you know.”

How could I tell him that modelling was killing me, and the last thing I wanted to reflect on, even for two hundred and fifty words, was my career?

I couldn’t.

“If you rewrite the assignment and re-submit it within two weeks, I’ll give it another read and consider giving you a higher grade,“George said. “Okay?”

“Thanks for the offer. I’ll take it under consideration.” I stood up, straightening my blazer over my dress and making a beeline for the door.

“Georgia,” he said.

“What?”

He’d said my name like that last year, with his arms around me, while he told me our fake relationship was over. I wouldn’t fall for it again. Wouldn’t let him hurt me again. Wouldn’t let another imperfect man break me open only to see who I really was and leave.

“Here.“He handed me a sheet of paper. “The form for the Italy trip.”

I fought the urge to ball it up and shove it in his face. Instead, I handed it back to him. “What makes you think I’m going?”

Even though every fibre of my being saidItaly! Pasta! Beautiful art! Wandering through old buildings and looking at architecture!Every beat of my throbbing, still-bruised heart was a warning bell against going anywhere with George Devereaux. Let alone the romantic country where we’d met.

“I know you, Georgia.”

I rested my hand on the doorknob and didn’t turn around to see his face as I retorted, “You know me about as well as you know how to keep promises, George.”

***

After an exhausting week of studying, photoshoots, the run-in with Sergio, and then the meeting with George, the last thing I wanted to do was accept Katerina’s invitation to her Bible study on Friday.

But I missed her, and Abigail, and especially wanted to see Katerina and Alexander’s adorable baby, Mattias, so I agreed to go. She’d texted me last night to tell me we were going to read 1 Samuel 16. As I took the subway to the Steele penthouse, I skimmed through the passage on my phone.

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