Page 48 of The Artist and the Muse

Chapter Twenty-Two: George Devereaux

For our second-last night in Italy, we were supposed to have a fancy Italian dinner with all the students before heading over to an art museum. However, everyone appeared to have eaten some bad calamari and they were all suffering for it.

All of the students aside from Georgia. I’d escaped, since I hadn’t touched the calamari. There was something about eating an animal with tentacles, even if the food itself wasn’t tentacle-shaped, that grossed me out.

So unfortunately for Hunter and all the other students, Georgia and I were the only ones standing in the hotel lobby tonight.

“Where is everyone?” she asked, checking her watch after five minutes past our scheduled meeting time. “I thought we were supposed to meet for dinner.”

I showed her the messages I’d received from them, one after the other. “They’re not coming.”

An expression of dawning horror came across her face, like the victim in a slasher flick who realized the axe murderer was right behind them. It wasn’t particularly soothing to my ego. “I’m glad I didn’t have the calamari.”

“You didn’t? I thought you loved seafood.”

“I’m beginning to think you have some kind of weird spidey sense when it comes to my dietary habits.” She arched a brow at me.

“Yes, it’s called caring about your health. You caught me.”

“I’m fine.”

I wanted to believe her. I’d even seen her eating pasta, bread, and pizza as well as ordering lattes on this trip, so that had to be a good sign. At least she wasn’t surviving off black coffee, which I knew she despised.

“How about we have a truce tonight?” I suggested. “We can talk about whatever you want and it won’t involve your eating habits. We’ll go to that fancy restaurant that we have a reservation at, and I’ll be on my best behaviour. Promise.”

She took a step closer. “Swear it on your favourite painting.”

“Georgia—”

“If you step out of line, I want your favourite painting.”

“You already have it.” I’d given her the one of the knight and the maiden with the sword strapped to her back.

“Why is that one your favourite?”

“Because it’s yours.”

“Then pick a different one,” she said after a moment. I didn’t miss the near-imperceptible change in her blue eyes, how they softened at my admission.

“Fine. You can have my second-favourite painting if I step out of line.”

“Excellent.” She checked her reflection in a nearby mirror hanging in the lobby, reapplied her lipstick, and tucked a strand of her hair back into place.

Then she marched toward the hotel door. “Are you coming? I thought we were going to dinner.”

“I’m coming. Someone has to make sure you don’t get lost.”

“Hey!” She laughed. It was the most carefree, exquisite sound I’d heard from her in ages. Maybe it was my fault for being too overprotective and pushy with her. She needed to be free, not caged. “I know my way around Rome.”

“Not like I do.” I rested my palm on the small of her back. “The restaurant is that way.”

I jerked my chin in the opposite direction of where she’d been going.

“It’s not my fault Italian streets all look the same,” she said with a mock-disdainful sniff. “Besides, you’re the one who insists on using terms like northand south instead of left and right.”

“You mean the terms that cartographers have used for hundreds of years?”

“Do I look like a cartographer to you?”

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