Page 55 of The Artist and the Muse

“And what if I don’t do it for you? What if I don’t want to look nice for aman?“ I retorted.

“Then I’d be overjoyed that I get to see you like this, because you do it for yourself. Because it makes you feel confident. But I don’t think that’s the reason you did your makeup this morning.”

“You’re a mind-reader now?” I chucked the used tissue in a nearby trash can.

“I can read one mind. Yours, half the time, and mine half the time. Together, that makes up one mind.” He shot me a grin that I caught as we both looked in the mirror.

“I wear makeup becauseIwant to.” But that wasn't true. I wore it like a shield.

I’d done it first to hide my acne when I was twelve. Then, when that had cleared up, I’d kept wearing it because I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t perfectly made up. If I didn’t suit what society and my mother and those around me thought a model should be. I didn’t know who I was without makeup on, because I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t amodel. If I wasn’t Georgia, made famous by walking on runways and catwalks. If I wasn’t the flawless doll for designers to dress up and Instagram commenters to fawn over.

“Okay.” I could tell he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t press the subject either.

Instead, he just traced his hands over my arms, his hands gently coming to a stop on my shoulders.

We were silent, meeting each other’s gazes in the mirror. The water boiled in the coffee pot, but neither of us moved.

His hazel gaze seemed to say a thousand words all at once.I love you. Tell me the truth. What are you afraid of?

Or maybe that was what I wanted him to say. Maybe I wanted an excuse to tell him the truth, but I was too cowardly to bring it up first.

“I’ve really enjoyed this trip,” I said, just to break the hold that meeting his eyes had on me. I spun around and stepped out of his grasp, taking up his invitation to sit on the chair by the desk.

“So have I,” he said. “I’ve learned a lot more than I expected to.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“More about God than I expected to learn,” he said softly. I thought of how he’d prayed over our dinner, and the words he’d spoken to me.TheyouGod made is so much more than a pretty face.

The Bible study I’d gone to came to mind. We’d read that God didn’t look at appearance, but at the heart. How wasmyheart? Crammed with futile, materialistic, and superficial obsessions, striving toward perfection that I’d never reach because the goalposts kept moving?

“Me, too,” I said softly.

“I should make that coffee.”

I nodded, my eyes meeting his for a brief moment before flitting to the chipped manicure on my nails.

“Stop doing that,” he murmured.

“Doing what?” I demanded, clasping my hands together on my lap.

“Stop looking so… guarded. You keep looking at me like I’m about to hurt you.”

“Maybe it’s because I haven’t forgotten how you broke off our fake engagement,” I snapped.

George flinched, but didn’t step back. “I love you.”

“So you keep saying.” It was a low blow. I kept waiting for him to retreat, to realize I was too much. Too much work, too difficult, too different for us to fit. I waited for my harsh words to scare him off.

He didn’t.

“I love you,” he repeated, “and I broke off our fake engagement because I love you.”

“Did you also break your legs because you wanted to run a marathon?”

“I’m tired of the lies, Georgia. I’m tired of pretending. If I’m going to be yours and you’re going to be mine, I don’t want it to be for any reason other than the fact that we love each other and want tobe committed to each other. No more fake relationships. No more publicity contracts. Just you and me.

“I broke off our fake engagement because I didn’t feel like I was worthy of you,” he admitted. “I couldn’t allow myself to believe that I deserved you, and I wanted you to find someone who did.”

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