Page 39 of The Artist and the Muse

I could never be good enough for her after what I had done. How could I burden her by asking her to give me something real when I could never be worthy of her love?

I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I’m glad we’re in agreement, then.”

“And that kiss just now—was that fake, too?” she snapped.

I swallowed the truth screaming to break free in my throat. “Yes.”

Chapter Eighteen: Georgia Philips

After an eight and a half hour flight, I was ready to stretch my legs. Unfortunately, it was midnight by the time we arrived in Rome. After we checked into our hotel, I found myself lugging my suitcase, duffel bag, and purse up three flights of stairs because European hotels didn’t have elevators. I guess I’d gotten what I wanted in the form of cardio.

George was right behind me, easily carrying his one suitcase and remaining quiet. He knew better than to offer to assist me or make me accept his help again. After what I’d said to him on the plane, I didn’t blame him.

Still, I made a mental note to take weightlifting more seriously when I got home. Clearly, my combination of cycling, Pilates, and barre classes wasn’t cutting it when it came to dragging fifty pounds of clothes, shoes, and toiletries up the stairs.

After what felt like ten years of playing bellhop, I made it to my room: 302.

George, instead of continuing on to the next floor like I’d expected him to, followed right behind me. And when I fiddled with my belongings to find my hotel room key, he was in the room right next to mine.

Of course he was. I was lucky that by the grace of God we weren’t forced to share a room with one bed like a cheesy romance novel.

I was mature enough to share a hallway—and a hotel room wall—with my ex-fake-fiancé. Or love of my life. Of course I was.

Without taking another look over my shoulder, I heaved my belongings into the small room and made short work of unpacking. I wasn’t friends with any of the other students, so I’d opted for a single bed and no roommates, although splitting a room might have made the experience cheaper.

I remembered another time I’d been in Italy, for Katerina’s bachelorette trip. That had ended in panicked danger. Fortunately, this trip shouldn’t have that same ending.

But when I thought back to how I’d left things with George after we’d met in Italy before Katerina’s bachelorette, thoughts of danger resurfaced.

George had been involved in Sebastian Cavalli’s money laundering scheme when I met him. It was only in the few days before I’d left that Sebastian’s accomplices had been arrested as part of an anti-corruption crackdown in Italy and George had realized what his alleged friend was doing. He’d cut ties with Sebastian and, fearing the wrath of the Cavallis, had made plans to leave Italy. He’d asked me to come with him to Los Angeles.

I’d told him I couldn’t, and that was the end of us.

Or so I had thought.

Littledid I know he would turn out to be my cousin-in-law’s brother. Little did I know he would show up in New York, and we would come up with our mutually-beneficial marriage arrangement.

As I finished unpacking, and began washing my face and brushing my teeth to prepare myself for bed, my mind still raced with thoughts. After I’d finished changing into pyjamas and curled up with my fantasy novel about dragons, I couldn’t absorb myself in the magical world no matter how hard I tried.

Instead, all I could think about was how things had gone down between me and George when I’d discovered it was, in fact, a small world after all…

***

One Year Ago

A soft evening glow suffused the guest bedroom at the Steele penthouse. It seeped through the curtains, bathing George Devereaux’s face in a warm amber glow.

“I thought I’d never see you again.” I kept my hands in the pockets of my oversized lavender hoodie, staring at George’s left elbow. Not the most romantic line of sight—but then again, he wasn’t my boyfriend. We’d never even kissed.

I’d been too worried that someone would see us and the rumours would be reported back to my fake boyfriend.

“I missed you, Georgia,” he whispered. He managed to brand my name with desperation and reverence all at once. “Every moment of every day.”

“You could have called. Or texted. I know I said I didn’t want to come to Los Angeles with you, but that doesn’t mean you had to drop off the face of the earth.”

“I’m sorry.” He sat on the bench in front of the guest bed, all lanky limbs and scruffy beard.

George was more dishevelled than he had been when we had met in Italy. I’d never seen him with this much stubble or in such messy attire. Instead of seeming foreign to me, I marvelled at how every different side of him that I saw only drew me in more. Especially this one, sitting in front of me and saying he’d missed me.

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