Page 52 of The Artist and the Muse

Suddenly, I felt George’s warm hands on my waist, holding me. Steadying me. “Georgia, I love you. I just—”

“You don’t want to be seen with me in public.”

“If I could, I’d spend every day of my life holding hands with you and wandering down every street in Italy. But we’re still here on an educational trip—”

“For one more night. Since when have you cared about following the rules?” In spite of myself, I turned to meet his gaze again.

“Since I realized that I lost you by breaking them,” he breathed, the heat of his body draping over me like a shawl. “When we decided to have a fake relationship, we were breaking the rules. I shouldn’t have ever agreed to that. I should’ve made things real with you, like I’ve wanted to from the moment we met. I’m sorry I didn’t do that before, butplease, let me try now. Let me try to be good enough for you.”

I felt like sobbing or laughing or both. “You always have been.”

His hazel eyes widened, seeming to glow in the dim moonlight. “I’ll do my best to believe it. Because you’ve always been more than enough for me, Georgia.”

I took a deep breath that didn’t steady me half as much as his touch did. “Now that we're here, there’s some gelato and a fountain I want to see.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of my neck, and I felt his smile spread against my jaw. “That’s my girl.”

We walked a while, and found ourselves in front of a motorcycle rental shop. I eyed the bike George was renting for the night. It was surprisingly easy to rent a motorcycle in Rome, something I only appreciated now. This one was a similar model and colour to the onewe’d ridden the first time we’d been to the fountain. George came out of the shop with the key and two helmets.

I took one from him. “This time, I thought we could switch things around and I could take us there.”

Fortunately, I was wearing biker shorts under my dress.

He arched an eyebrow. “What did we say about you and directions?”

“I definitely didn’t say I would be navigating. However, if you were to gently tap me on the left or right shoulder whenever you want me to turn left or right, I think I’ll manage. Or do you not trust me?”

“I trust you. But let it be known that I’m only doing this because I love you.”

“You’re not sick of saying that yet?” My heart still flipped whenever I heard it.

“I won’t be tired of saying it, even when you’re sick of hearing it.” He tossed a flirty grin in my direction as I slid onto the bike and he got on behind me. The solid warmth of his chest against my back contrasted with the gentle breeze of the summer evening, which whipped through my clothes as we wove through traffic.

George seemed relaxed as I drove, never feeling the need to take control or tell me I was doing something wrong. It was refreshing. The few times I’d driven on a motorcycle with a former friend, he had been critical, nagging, telling me I was doing everything unsafely or with too much caution. George just… trusted me, and gently guided me toward our destination.

A girl could get used to this.

We arrived at the fountain. I spied a gelato shop across from it in the square, which hadn’t been there the last time we’d come here. The courtyard next to the fountain and the ice cream shop was surprisingly empty. Its only inhabitants were a handful of pigeons.

Even if I wasn’t sure what my future would look like, I knew George would be in it. And while I wasn’t sure I could totally accept his words about loving me not for my appearance, I wanted to try to believe them.

Which meant ice cream.

“Is your favourite ice cream flavour still what I think it is?” George asked, holding my hand as we walked toward the gelato shop. We’d left our helmets hanging on the bike’s handlebars. It was quiet enough here compared to the Trevi Fountain that no one would steal it.

“I don’t have a favourite flavour.” That was true; I’d tried almost every kind of ice cream there was, even charcoal ice cream on a dare once.

“That’s what I thought.” A smug grin curved his lips upwards.

“And yours is still chocolate hazelnut?”

“I know what I like.” He looked at me in a way that assured me he wasn’t only talking about ice cream.

We ordered; I picked a lemon-flavoured gelato and he got his favourite, as I’d predicted. George paid, something I didn’t protest. On the few dates I’d been on before him, I’d always felt guilty about not splitting the bill with a man. Often, that was because I never wanted to see him again and he’d let me down in some minor way: he picked his teeth at the table, his taste in music was reprehensible, or he didn’t know the difference between ‘there, their, and they’re’.

But with George, though I recognized his flaws, somehow, they didn’t seem to matter as much as the things I loved about him. I wasn’t looking for an excuse to end our time together, but only seeking every reason to continue it.

We sat on the bench overlooking the fountain and enjoyed our scoops of ice cream in silence. It had been so long since I’d had this much sugar that, even though the lemon gelato was only faintly sweet,I thought I might die of happiness. Or be overwhelmed by a sugar rush. The two sensations were remarkably similar.

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