Page 34 of The Artist and the Muse

“You need a visa to stay in the States. I need to get back at Sergio.”

“Sergio?” His brows rose. I hadn’t told anyone about how Sergio had cruelly dumped me over text and then DMed me an invitation to his engagement party. I explained what had happened and how Sergio had ended our contract so he could be with a younger woman.

I could have sworn I saw his hazel eyes darken with anger, one of his hands—the one not clutching an empty bowl of popcorn—tightening into a fist. As if he wanted to punch Sergio on my behalf. The thought made me smile, but it was over before it began, his features smoothing out into calm again.

“Are you proposing to me?” He arched an eyebrow. “Because I think we’ll have to set some ground rules here if that’s the case.”

“So you’reagreeing?” I said hopefully. The last thing I wanted was the humiliation of going to Sergio’s party alone—or worse, not going at all, since that would send a signal to him that I was devastated by our ‘breakup’.

“Yes.” His eyes held mine for a long, imperceptible second. “Anything for you, my darling fiancée.”

I rolled my eyes. “What are the ground rules, then?”

“Don’t fall in love with me.”

“As if.” My heart clenched in my chest, spasming like George’s words were a fist around it. He was closer to the truth than he could know. But there was no way we could be together for real.

After all, he was a nomadic wanderer, even if his sister did have roots here. I wasn’t looking for anything genuine. Not now, or ever.

A convenient fake relationship was the perfect way for us to solve our problems.

“We’re off to the right start.” He paused, and I wanted to ask him whetherhe’dfall in love withme. But I couldn’t let myself probe that possibility, because then I’d have to deal with the part of me that wanted him to. Wanted this to be real.

“No man can ever meet my exacting standards, remember?” I tried to say lightly.

A flash of hurt crossed his face, but it flickered out of existence before I could question it. “Right.”

“Well, um, I guess, thanks for agreeing. I’ll see you at Sergio’s engagement party, then?”

“Of course.”

I got up to leave, feeling more weighed down with worries than before.

It didn’t make sense for me to feel that way. Love was a weakness I couldn’t afford. I was doing the convenient, practical thing, by providing a solution to both our problems.

So why did my heart say otherwise?

Chapter Seventeen: George Devereaux

The day of the Italy trip had arrived. I mentally reviewed the short list of four students and one TA who would be going. Due to the limited amount of study abroad funding for the class trip, I’d had to narrow down the list to ensure it wouldn’t be too much of a financial burden for each individual student, who would have to foot more of the cost themselves.

I’d created a rigorous vetting system for the group to choose who would go on the trip. I had figured that at least half the class wouldn’t be able to afford the trip or simply would have scheduling conflicts since it was summer. Though, it was a class of two hundred people, and there were still thirty students interested in the trip. Each applicant had submitted an essay through a secure online platform; I didn't have access to names or even student ID numbers that way. I didn’t need to be accused of favoritism again. The girls from office hours were already jealous of Georgia cutting the line once.

The result was that I had four merit-chosen students coming, with my TA Hunter also tagging along.

Now, the day was here. Everyone was responsible for booking for their own airfare and meeting at the hotel tomorrow by ten am. After going through security, I walked toward my gate in search of a coffee shop. Only to see Georgia. Was she also going on the trip?

If so, I was still surprised she had applied to go to Italy at all—and wondered which anonymous essay was hers.

She wore a pair of light-wash, straight-leg jeans and a white button-down top with an oversized grey blazer. All of it seemed purposefully constructed to conceal her frame, but even from here I could see how far her collarbones jutted out as she glanced up at the departures sign. She was painfully thin.

Were we on the same flight?

I checked my seat number on my boarding pass.27A. I’d assumed Georgia would be taking a private jet or a chartered flight if she went to Italy at all, given her family’s wealth.

Apparently not.

Rolling my suitcase over to her and pushing past a throng of tired-looking travellers making their way to their gate, I called her name. “Georgia!”

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