Page 26 of The Artist and the Muse

“So, I didn’t realize George was a professor now,” Abigail said.

“Lecturer,” I corrected her quickly. I wasn’t sure why the difference mattered. It wasn’t like him being a lecturer instead of a professor would mean he was no longer my teacher. “He’s a lecturer.”

“Okay,” Allie said, voicing my thoughts. “Why does it matter what you call his job?”

I still wasn’t sure what to make of my recently returned-from-the-dead (well, essentially the dead) cousin. But today, I was erring on the side of being annoyed by her.

“Professors get tenure,” Katerina pointed out. I was grateful for her as always, but this time more so.

George didn’t have tenure. So after this term was up, he’d have to find a new job. Part of me wanted him to not find a new job here and go back to Canada. To return to Montréal or even Italy for all I cared, or go back to the seedy underground dealings he’d had withSebastian Cavalli. I wanted him anywhere but here. Yet the thought of him leaving New York and never seeing me again made a rock drop into my stomach. I pushed away my salad with fat-free dressing and gluten-free croutons.

“Okay, moving on,” Abs said. “Georgia, you never told us he was teaching your class. I had to hear it from my dad.”

She looked crestfallen. Since she’d gotten married, I’d felt more and more like the outsider among my group of cousins, with everyone paired off but me. Well, me and Allie.

“I guess we’ve both been busy. I’ve been working a lot, and I have to prepare for graduation.” Never mind that Art History was the last class of my degree.

Abigail asked, “How has your summer semester been?”

I wasn’t taking any other classes but the Art History one, which I’d hoped would be a piece of cake. But ironically, the course I’d thought would be the easiest challenged me the most.

“It’s been alright. I’m just focusing on this assignment for Art History. Apparently, my teacher thinks that I don’t know how to write a personal reflection.” I rolled my eyes like it was a lighthearted thing.

“Well, that sucks. I’m sure your writing is great, Georgia. I’d love to read it sometime,” Allie piped up.

“So what’s my brother like as a teacher?” Katerina asked, an eyebrow quirking up. She fiddled with her long chestnut-coloured braid, her hazel eyes peering into mine.

I got the feeling she was asking about more than George’s teaching style, but I answered the question she voiced. “Okay, I guess. If you ignore the fact that I think half of the girls in the class have a crush on him. Kind of like that scene at the beginning ofIndiana Joneswhere all the girls bat their eyelashes at Harrison Ford.”

Allie chuckled. “I loved that movie.”

She’d never spoken much about her life outside the Steeles. I tried to imagine her watching Indiana Jones movies with the Cavalli mafia family, but the image never materialized.

“Are you learning anything from him?” Katerina asked.

I took another sip of my cold, bitter coffee. Then I gave up and dumped a packet of Stevia into it, stirring the grains until they dissolved. “He’s… a teacher. I don’t know. He had this idea to take the class on a trip to Italy. Apparently only a handful of people signed up out of a class of two hundred, but that makes sense since most people either can’t afford it or can’t take time off to go.”

“Are you going to go?” Abigail asked, leaning forward and resting her chin on her elbow. She narrowly avoided knocking over her glass of orange juice. “It sounds so fun! I would love to go back to Italy.”

A lump rose from my stomach to my throat at the mention of the trip Abigail and I had taken—the one that had allowed me to meet George. “I don’t know. I might have some shoots scheduled for that week.”

“Georgia,” Katerina said, putting a hand over mine. “Do you really care more about a photoshoot than an opportunity to see beautiful art in Italy with the best tour guide around?”

I’ve already done that once, and it broke my heart.Hebroke my heart.But no one knew what had transpired between us.

“I've already been to Italy with Abigail.” I shrugged.

It was true that modelling was now routine for me, a rut I’d fallen into and wasn’t sure how to dig myself out of. But it was also true that the thought of being in a romantic environment with George, even if other people were there, made me want to tear my heart out.

Or what was left of it.

Fortunately, the conversation changed from the topic of George to the baby and then to how Allie’s new job at the Steele family charitywas going. My shoulders slumped in relief as I considered whether I should go on the Italy trip.

What if it wasn’t about George? Maybe I didn’t need to let him dictate my future decisions. The woman I was before meeting George would have gone in a heartbeat.

Because he’d just be another man capable of letting me down, but a man who had yet to do so. Not a man who’d already shattered my heart.

I wavered on my decision. If I did choose to go, I would be doing it for me, and the part of me that had always loved art, long before George Devereaux came into the picture.

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