Page 35 of The Artist and the Muse

She didn’t turn around, but I saw her fingers tighten on her pink and gold suitcase, which had her initials monogrammed into it. When I rolled my suitcase to a stop next to hers, she pulled her shoulders back. “Mr. Devereaux.”

While I’d teased her about calling me that on the first day of class, the truth was, I missed hearing my first name on her lips. She said it like no other woman ever did—or maybe she did things to me that no other woman ever had.

I caught the flight number from the boarding pass in her hand, and held up my own. Surprise and anticipation flooded my chest, mingling with anxiety. “I see we’re on the same flight.”

“Yep.” She checked her boarding pass.27D.We’d missed each other by just three seats.

God, why?

I shouldn’t have questioned it. After all, if anything it would be a blessing. Having her so close to me and pretending our relationship was only professional—yes, that would be good for me. It would at least help me practice being professional around her in public. Because the last thing I wanted was to get my hopes up by pretending we were anything else.

I found a coffee shop and bought a latte, then sipped it as I leafed through a book on Renaissance art. Half an hour later, the flight attendants called our boarding zone number. I filed into line behind Georgia. She shifted her purse strap on her shoulder while fishing something out of the duffel bag she’d stacked on top of her suitcase. She muttered a curse as her oversized purse kept sliding down her arm.

I held up the tote bag for her, ignoring how bony her arm and shoulder felt through her boxy clothes. At least, I tried to ignore it. But anyone who looked at her could see that she was more frail than she’d been when we met.

Had her modelling really taken that much of a toll on her since we’d met? Or… was it me?

“Thanks,” she said, quickly straightening and yanking her bag back up onto her shoulder.

We showed our passports and boarding passes, then boarded the flight. As I put my suitcase into the overhead compartment with ease, I noticed Georgia struggling to heft hers over her head.

“I didn’t ask you to help,” she said, as I took the suitcase from her hands and hoisted it into the bin.

“Good, because I don’t expect you to thank me for it either,” I said, taking my seat.

She took her aisle seat, pulling a makeup bag out of her purse and reapplying her red lipstick.

She looked beautiful in red, but then, she looked beautiful in everything. It was why I’d painted her face so many times, in so many different things. Had used the curves and lean lines of her body as a muse for so many paintings that I’d lost count.

Then, after Sebastian, everything had fallen apart. I hadn’t painted in God knew how long.

But now, with only a foot of space between us, I was consumed by the urge to sketch her in profile: the ski-slope ridge of her nose, the way her lashes fanned out over her cheeks when she glanced down, the softness of her cheeks and chin.

“Excuse me, would you mind switching seats?” A frazzled-looking middle-aged woman asked Georgia. “I’m in seat 27B. My husband and son are across the aisle. We couldn’t get seats all together at the last minute.”

A red-faced toddler and his tired-looking father were sitting in 27E and 27F. The boy was jumping on the seat, heedless of his dad’s commands for him to get down, and playing with the buttons that controlled the light and air vents.

“Of course.” Georgia jumped up, grabbing her purse and moving two seats over. Her hair brushed my face as she sat down and pulled it back into a ponytail.

I shouldn’t have thanked God for the stranger’s misfortune of not being able to book seats with her family. But I did.

Thank You, God, for Georgia’s presence in my life, on this flight. Even if she ignores me the whole time, at least I get to be next to her.

***

Pulling out my laptop and grading almost two hundred essays shouldn’t have been enjoyable. But as I kept an eye on Georgia—who had fallen asleep almost immediately after the plane had taken off—my heart warmed. The seat next to hers, 27C, remained empty. I’d expected her to move over by one seat to get away from me, but to my surprise, she didn’t.

I’d never seen her asleep. I supposed she had thought unconsciousness was a more palatable option than having to make conversation with me.

But seeing her half-closed eyelids and hearing her gentle breaths was more intimate than the handful of kisses we had shared. Seeing her let down the always-composed, always-perfect guard she always kept up, even if it was involuntarily in sleep, made me long for her all the more.

I kicked myself for letting her go.

Maybe I should have clung to our charade and continued our fake relationship. Would having part of her—even if it was only pretend—have been better than this strained tension between us now?

As the flight attendants rolled carts of beverages and snacks down the aisles, Georgia stirred. Her scent of orange blossoms and almonds drifted over to me. I had the strongest urge to stroke her hair and tell her to relax and that everything would be alright.

But no teacher who wanted to keep his job would do that to his student.

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