Page 70 of The Artist and the Muse

So why would George be talking to him?

The thought circled my mind until the grand opening was over. We closed and locked up and cleaned the bakery, and I was ready for a relaxing night in my pyjamas.

But just as I was making my way to my apartment, Abigail called me. “Georgia, do you want to come over to the penthouse for a girls’ night? We can watch movies and eat popcorn and paint each other’s nails. Well, maybe not in that order, but—”

I chuckled. My cousin’s exuberance, despite my long day, was just what I needed to get my spirits up.

“Sure. I’d love to.”

Even though I’d been hoping for a quiet night in, I redirected my plans and rerouted Pennington to take me to the Steele penthouse since it had its own screening room.

When I got there, though, after taking the elevator to the very top, I found the screening room mysteriously empty. “Abigail?”

Maybe she was late. I checked my phone for texts from her, but there was nothing.

Maybe she had meant we should meet at her place instead and I had misheard?

Frowning, I picked up the phone to call her again, but I ended the call mid-ring when I saw a note sitting on the entry table. Addressed to me.

Georgia,

There is no movie. I’ve left you a clue on your favourite painting in the penthouse. I love you.

George

Intrigued, I tucked the fancy card in my pocket and made my way over to my favourite painting. I hoped George actually knew what my favourite painting in the penthouse was—an oil portrait of the Steelefamily and me and my mom—or else this would be a very awkward scavenger hunt.

But why did he have to make it a surprise? Couldn’t he just ask me to meet him at the penthouse for a date? Then again, I wasn’t exactly dressed for a fancy date. Maybe that was his goal?

I glanced down at my dark wash jeans and lace-edged black camisole. Not exactly fancy date attire.

I found a note as promised in the form of a blue sticky note beside the portrait’s frame and breathed a sigh. At least George knew my taste in art well enough to know that I would favour this painting.

The sticky note read:Turn around.

I spun around and nearly jumped out of my skin as a door creaked open.

The door to the guest room where George and I had kissed for the first time.

Smiling, I walked toward the door and yanked it open the rest of the way.

Inside, dozens of candles provided the only light source, illuminating the rose petals strewn on the floor and paintings on the walls that hadn’t been there before. In the midst of it all stood George.

“Georgia.” He smiled at me, and I felt that smile to my bones.

I dropped the sticky note and stalked toward him. “What is this?”

“Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for, but I’ll take whatever you want to give me.”

“George, what’s the occasion?”

“Oh, you know.” He rested a hand on the small of my back, his other hand cupping my nape. “I just wanted to surprise you.”

A shiver went down my spine, like a silk ribbon unfurling along the length of my back. “You didn’t succeed. I saw this coming from one-point-six-oh-nine kilometres away.”

He chuckled. “Have I told you I love it when you use the metric system?”

“No, but that’s a weird thing to love. You should get that checked out.”

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