Page 63 of The Artist and the Muse

Then there was also the matter that taking this job would feel like settling. It would mean choosing the convenient over the fulfilling—choosing what was easy over what I really wanted and felt called to do. Just like I’d done when I’d agreed to Georgia’s fake marriage proposal. I wasn’t going to do that anymore.

“As flattered as I am by you offering me the job, I can’t take it.” I stood from the chair hastily, almost knocking it over as I shoved it back. “Thank you for considering me, though.”

The Dean tried to hide his shock. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like more time to consider it, Mr. Devereaux?”

“No, but once more, I thank you for asking me to fill this position.”

I couldn’t lie or pretend or sneak around anymore. Nor could I deny that modern art wasn’t what would fulfill me—teaching what I truly loved would.

I wanted my life to be real.

I wanted a life with Georgia that was real.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Georgia Philips

Istared down at my phone. Six calls to George, all of them going to voicemail. Seven text messages, all unread. It had been a couple of hours since we had parted ways at the airport, so I was probably overreacting. He was likely at the university having his work meeting. But what if something bad had happened to him? Or worse… What if he’d changed his mind about us being together now that we were back in New York?

This was why I didn’t put my faith in men. They always disappointed me somehow. He’d said he would call me tonight, but apparently even that was too much to expect from him.

After saying goodbye at the airport, I’d been so sure that George would say something. That he would tell me he was coming with me. But real life hit me the moment we got back.

He had disappeared in record time at the airport. I’d turned around to see if he was there, but he’d magically made it through the long customs line and crowded baggage claim area… and vanished.

Now I was at home, baking to avoid my feelings. I’d missed getting my hands dirty. Kneading dough or stirring batter always had a grounding effect on me.

Stress-baking wasn’t my preferred cooking method. But something had to be done about my emotions, and I would prefer to bake my way through them over anything else. I wasn’t going to eat all of the baked goods, of course, but I was sure I’d find someone to pawn my food onto. I knew better than to swing from the extreme of restricted eating to binge eating.

As the sun began its descent from its noontime peak into the golden rays of late afternoon, I tried and failed to avoid thoughts of George. My texts had started out sane, but gradually became more and more unhinged.

Georgia Philips:

Thanks for the trip! I had a great time

I know I said we would do brunch tomorrow, but how would you feel about dinner tonight? I’ll cook

Or we can get takeout

George?

They were all delivered with no response. Maybe I’d been crazy, high on the memory of him saying ‘I love you’, of how he’d kissed me in Italy.

I’d been crazy enough to believe what he said.

But what if all I had done was finish the vacation fling we’d started two years ago, and now he was done with me? Now we’d run our course, and he’d replace me with someone younger, hotter, smarter, more interesting—just…more.

Georgia Philips:

I guess your phone died?

Katerina says she hasn’t heard from you. Everything okay?

George Cartier Devereaux!!!!!

The last text had been one hour ago.

I hated myself for checking my phone. I hated myself for caring.

I hated that I loved him. That love for him threaded through my veins and nerves like caffeine, a high that buzzed through my bloodstream. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’tbreathewithout thinking of him.

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