Page 54 of The Artist and the Muse

“It’s you,” he whispered. “All these paintings—they’re all of you.”

I stalked toward the painting, my body humming with nervous energy and disbelief as I ran my fingers over the canvas. I felt the ridges and brushstrokes of the paint, and saw how he’d captured every detail of the scene so perfectly. My hair was in the braided bun it had been on the day we’d met. I wore the white dress I’d had on that fateful day, and around me were the same paintings. The only difference was that the room was completely empty of people, and a faint golden glow emanated from my silhouette.

“When I saw you that day,” George said, his voice a gentle murmur that caressed my skin as he stood behind me while I gazed at the painting. “It was like the rest of the world stopped existing—or at the very least, stopped mattering to me. I’d seen you come back to the museum so many times just to look at that one painting. I had to know you. I had to get inside your mind. I had to figure out who you were, why you were looking at my painting like that. I had to know what was going on inside your head.

“I didn’t even think I’d talk to you, at first. Usually, when I have an exhibit at a museum, I might come back once or twice to gauge what people think of it. But the first day I saw you staring at that painting, you looked so… entranced. So captivated. I came back the next day hoping I’d see you again. Then again and again, until I finally struck up the courage to talk to you. And you are… so much more than I ever imagined you would be.” His hand fell on my waist. “I love you, Georgia Philips.”

His words wrapped around me, a wave of love crashing over me and filling all the cracks in my heart with warmth. “I love you, too, George.”

Chapter Twenty-Four: Georgia Philips

Despite our late night, I woke up before dawn the next morning, just in time for our last day in Italy. George and I had gotten back from his studio around midnight, and then I’d collapsed into bed and slept soundly. I dressed, brushed my teeth, and made up my face in a hurry. Part of me felt like a giddy teenage girl about to go to her favourite band’s concert. Another part of me wanted to mock myself for the butterflies in my stomach and the fizzy excitement thrumming in my veins.

It’s only George Devereaux. The man you’ve known for ages, who you’ve seen in various embarrassing states The man who changed your life forever. The man who you can’t stop thinking about no matter how hard you try to throw yourself into work and school and forget about him.

Nope.Notgoing there.

I gave myself a quick spritz of perfume, checked my reflection one more time in the mirror—lips were perfectly lined, my eyeliner was flawlessly drawn, and my foundation was dewy, not cakey. Then I headed next door to see George. I’d already hammered on his door once with no response when I realized he might still be sleeping. After all, just because I was awake didn’t mean he was.

I reconsidered my plan of knocking on his room door. After all, I may not have been a Christian like Katerina was, but showing up at a man’s hotel room door unannounced was definitely not the kind of thing a respectable, well-brought-up girl would do. Even my mom would agree with that.

I didn’t have time to question or regret my choices, however, when George opened the door. He was bleary-eyed, clad in a button-down shirt and a pair of rumpled jeans that looked like he’d picked them up off the floor and thrown them on.

Despite his obvious fatigue, he smiled when he took me in, his eyes drinking in every inch of me in a way that made me glad I’d worn my second-best outfit of the trip. It was a white dress that I’d heard described as ‘cottagecore’, with a lace-up corset-style bodice and a flowing skirt that billowed out around my ankles.

“I missed you,” he said, his voice raspy from sleep. “Come here.”

“You saw me last night,” I protested as I stepped through his open door and into his room.

“And that was six hours ago.” He protested, wrapping his arms around me and enclosing me in his strong, solid arms. I breathed in the scent of him. A girl could get used to this kind of wake-up call.

I chuckled, tipping my chin up and kissing him. A red smear of lipstick stood out on his cheek when I pulled away, and I wiped it off with my thumb.

“Thanks for showing me your studio last night,” I said.

“Of course. I’ve wanted you to see it for a long time.” He gestured toward the two chairs by the desk, thankfully avoiding his unmade bed. “Have a seat. I’ll make us some bad instant coffee.”

“Sure. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I didn’t get much sleep anyways. I was tossing and turning.”

I situated myself in the wingback armchair in the corner of the room. “What kept you up?”

“Dreams of you.” He shot me a wink and I groaned.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re terribly cheesy?”

“I’m Québécois. I’d be worried if some part of my DNA wasn’t made of cheese,” he said as he filled the coffee pot with water.

The mirror hanging on the back of the door stared back at me. I picked up a tissue and started blotting my now-smudged lipstick.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” George said, his voice echoing from within the bathroom.

“Do what?” I stood and crossed the room toward the mirror, examining my reflection more closely.

“Be perfect.” He put the now-full coffee pot in its place, and added the instant coffee packets to two cups. Then he strode toward me and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind. “You don’t have to dress up for me, Georgia, or wear makeup. I love you as you are.”

His breath warmed my neck.

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