Page 53 of The Artist and the Muse

“There’s something I want to show you,” George said after a moment. “If you’ll let me.”

“What is it?” I spun around to face him, eyes widening.

“I’m not just going to tell you so easily. What would be the fun in that?” A teasing grin played on his lips.

I leaned in and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “How about now?”

He folded his arms across his chest and affected a stoic expression. “Nope.”

“Boring. Well, are you going to show me or not?”

“Yes. But I’m going to drive.” He reached for the key, which I’d put in my purse.

“You don’t trust me? After all that we’ve been through?” I clapped my hand over my chest dramatically.

“I don’t want to spoil the surprise. So I think the question is, doyoutrustme?”

I was surprised that I did. After everything that had happened, all that he’d done, all that we’d said and accused each other of and all the ways we’d hurt each other… I still trusted him.

I handed him the key.

***

The small building that George pulled up to was plain on the outside. It was a cozy bungalow, small and unassuming. But through the shutters on the windows, I glimpsed the faint gleam of a gilt frame, then the vivid green and blue brushstrokes of a painting.

I knew it had to be somewhere important to him. And that meant it was important to me, too.

“Welcome to my studio.” George held open the door for me to walk through.

I stepped into what had to be the most wondrous place in the world. To my left was a small kitchenette and a dining area with two chairs and a small, round wooden table. But to the right, nearly every conceivable surface—from the walls to the ceiling to the cloth-draped furniture—was covered in paintings. There was an easel in the centre of the room with a blank canvas on it, and a paint palette and brushes beside it on a small table. As if the artist had walked away in the middle of finishing his art collection and would come back to it an hour or two later. However, the copious amounts of dust that tickled my nose and throat proved otherwise.

“What is this place?” I asked. Obviously, it was where George kept many of his paintings—I could see his trademark style in each of the pieces, his signature in the corner, and the brushstrokes and the motifs he always used—but I’d never known he had a place like this. “I assumed you hadn’t been here in years, from all the dust.”

In all our time together in Italy when we’d first met, he’d never told me about this place.

“I’ve kept a studio here for ages. I always wanted to return and get my things back, but the timing was never right. I haven’t come back since I fled Italy after the Sebastian thing.”

“Weren’t you ever worried that someone would break in or steal something?”

“No, I’m friends with the woman next door, and she keeps an eye on the place.”

I arched an eyebrow at him, mentally picturing a charming Italian woman who resembled Monica Bellucci.

“She’s a widow with grandchildren who lets them play in her yard most of the time,” George said, as if reading my mind. “When I lived in Italy, she used to bring me homemade focaccia. She said I reminded her of the son she never had.”

“Cool.” I surveyed the paintings, many of which were covered in white cloths as well. “Can I see your work?”

“Of course. That’s why I brought you here.”

He crossed the room toward one of the cloth-covered frames. Then he coughed. “Maybe we should dust in here before we start looking at the paintings, though.”

“George, are you trying to distract me from the purpose of our visit? Because I once saw you wipe your hands on your jeans after eating, so I highly doubt a little dust is your top priority right now.”

“Well, it’s hard not to be nervous whenyou’rethe inspiration for all my paintings.“ With that, he tugged on the dropcloth, then yanked it off the frame.

I bit my lip to keep from gasping, worried that the ensuing cloud of dust particles would land in my mouth. “Is that…”

It was me. A painting of my back, in the exact outfit I’d been wearing when we had met at the same little art museum, sitting on the bench staring at his painting. The one he’d gifted me later that night.

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