Page 40 of The Artist and the Muse

I remained standing, and leaned back against the dresser. “You’resorry?”

“I am. And I know it’s not enough to be sorry. I went through… You know my father died. I understand that it’s not an excuse, but…”

My father had died, too. “And your mom?”

“She passed away about twelve years ago. Of cancer.”

My heart broke for him and the scared little boy he must have been once, losing first his mother and now his father. Now he and Katerina only had each other. “I’msorry.”

“You couldn’t have known. I should have told you. I should’ve reached out. But after everything that happened with Sebastian and then my father… I was ashamed of who I was. I was ashamed of what I’d done. I didn’t feel I deserved to see you and talk to you again.”

“Deserve?“ I repeated. I had to stop sounding like a parrot. I pulled my shoulders back, straightening up. “If we got anything we deserved, I don’t think we’d be in this room together right now.”

“No,” he agreed. “I’d be in prison. You’d be on some catwalk or in a cafe in Paris with a man buying you a coffee.”

“You could be the man buying me coffee.” ‘I missed you’ was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“I’ve done thatbefore. I have to say, I’d like to do it again.” He leaned back on the bench, propping himself up on his elbows as he stared at me.

In the light of the setting sun, his hazel eyes seemed to burn like embers as they pierced mine.

“There’s one thing we never did in Italy,” I heard myself say.

“And what’s that?” Gone was the feline, languid movement he had had when he’d sprawled out on the bench.He stood with military precision, and strode toward me, his long legs eating up the carpeted distance between us.

“This.” I rested my hands lightly on his shoulders and stretched up on my tiptoes, brushing my lips over his in the barest whisper of a kiss.

“Oh.”The syllable was a sigh laden with frustration, and yearning finally fulfilled.

He rested one hand on the small of my back, fingers splaying across my waist like he wanted to touch as much of me as possible. His other hand threaded into my hair as he pulled me against him, turning my gentle peck into a passionate kiss.

His lips were urgent, reckless in their need for mine. I’d been kissed before, but never like this. Never like I was all he needed, all he wanted to cherish. He cradled my face gently, cupped my cheek with reverence, as though I were more precious to him than any priceless artwork. Precious, but not breakable.

“Georgia,” he murmured when he pulled away after a moment, still close enough that his nose brushed mine. “We should have done this in Italy. We should have done everything in Italy.”

As much as I wanted to agree, I couldn’t deny that my fake relationship with Sergio had opened doors for my professional life just as my agent had promised it would. Would a vacation fling—no matter how well George kissed—have been worth that?

“We’re here now,” I said. “We’re togethernow.”

That seemed to quash his regret, and he kissed me again. Slower, but with just as much fervour, his slow-burning intensity as palpable as his scent of sea salt and sage. His hands were more tender, caressing rather than grasping, and each movement more intentional. I intertwined my fingers at his nape and revelled in the feeling of his warmth and solid strength against me.

Was it possible to not realize you’d been missing something—someone—so desperately until you had them?

“What does this mean?” I asked George when we broke apart from the kiss.

“I don’t know.” He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t usually make long-term plans.”

What was I thinking? I wasn’t one for long-term relationships either. Or any real relationships at all.

“Right.” I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling suddenly cold. “I don’t want to date anyone right now. I mean, I can’t. I’m still technically in a fake relationship with Sergio.”

Hurt and anger and confusion flashed across his face. “You kissed me while you’re with someone else?”

“It’s just a fake relationship. For publicity. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means something to me,” he snapped. “If I’m going to be with you–”

“And that’s an ‘if’, George. Just like you don’t make long-term plans. We’re not a couple. We just had a vacation fling.”

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