Page 41 of The Artist and the Muse

He snorted. “If what we had was just a fling, then I wouldn’t be here in this room with you right now. And we wouldn’t have done what we just did. I want you, Georgia. All of you.”

“I guess I can’t give you that. Not while I’m pretending to date Sergio.” I shoved my hands in the pockets of my hoodie, wishing I couldburrow into it and never come out. “This was a mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

His eyes darkened with anger. “That makes two of us.”

I left the guest bedroom and slammed the door behind me.

***

When I woke up the next morning, my mouth and eyes felt drier than the Sahara Desert, and my lips were chapped. I rubbed my eyes, and saw little flakes of mascara peel off onto my hands. Ugh. I’d forgotten to take off my makeup last night and my cleanser hadn’t been thorough enough to remove everything.

Checking the time, I saw that it was almost seven. Still early enough that I could get in a quick workout and shower, then put on makeup before our scheduled meeting time of nine am in the lobby. I opened my laptop to do a YouTube Pilates workout before showering and getting dressed.

I went through the motions of my morning routine and found myself checking social media almost reflexively, to see how many likes or comments my newest post had gotten me. It was a picture of the brownies I’d baked with the girls, with a caption about indulging in a sweet treat every once in a while. Not that I’d had more than half a bite of a brownie that day.

I wasn’t sure why I checked social media. Seeing the red heart notification pop up barely gave me the same satisfaction it once had. The fact that a large fraction of the comments were from lecherous men made me want to turn off my comments section entirely.

I threw my phone into my purse after applying a coat of lipstick and spritzing my face with setting spray to make sure my makeup held upin the Italian summer. It was going to be upwards of eighty degrees today.

Thinking about my first kiss with George hadn’t improved my sleep last night. Knowing he was one room over while I thought about kissing him was as embarrassing as walking around with my skirt tucked into my underwear.

Smoothing down the collar of my linen maxi dress, I packed my belt bag with the essentials: a water bottle, money clip, a notebook and pen, and a camera. I didn’t care if they made me look like a tourist; that was the point of this trip.

As I descended the stairs in search of breakfast—one smallpain au chocolatwouldn’t ruin my diet if I paired it with lots of walking and an espresso, right?—familiar footsteps trailed me.

I didn’t have to turn around to know it was George. I would have known him anywhere, his motorcycle boots clomping on the floor without heed for anyone who might still be sleeping at eight-thirty.

“Good morning.”

It wasn’t fair that his voice still had that faintly raspy, husky quality to it as if he’d just gotten out of bed. I didn’t want to turn around to see him, in case hehadjust rolled out of bed and still sported that deliciously unkempt bedhead that always made me want to run my fingers through his hair.

Focus, Georgia. You’re here to admire the art. Not artists.

“Morning.” Whether it was a good one remained to be seen.

We made our way down the stairs and I wished desperately for an elevator as my legs burned from the squats and lunges I’d done this morning.

We descended into the lobby and I seized upon the smell of coffee like a bloodhound. Inside the hotel’s first floor was a small coffee shop.

George trailed me as I walked toward the coffee shop. Addressing him, I spun around with my hands on my hips. “You don’t need to follow me everywhere.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Georgia. It’s just a coincidence that I’m in the room next to yours, got up at the same time that you did, and then had a craving for caffeine.”

“Maybe I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Call it God’s Providence, then.”

I rolled my eyes and scanned the menu. Fortunately, it was written in Italian and English. I ordered a smallpain au chocolatand an espresso.

“Espresso?” George said after he’d placed his order and we waited for our food and drinks by the counter.

“I told you, Mr. Devereaux, I’ve changed. I take my coffee black now.” I turned away from him to distract from the obvious lie. “Besides, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

“I’ll trade you,” he said. “I got a caramel macchiato.”

I hated and loved him for knowing my favourite coffee order. “No, thank you.”

“You can have a sip of mine, then.”

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