Page 71 of The Artist and the Muse

“Later. For now, I think I’d rather checkyouout.”

“That’s awful, George. The last time I heard you say something that cheesy was—” It dawned on me. The fake proposal he’d given me all those years ago. “Wait, are you proposing to me with a cheesy line? Is this why you were talking to my mom and Uncle Aaron?”

“Did you have to spoil my proposal, Georgia?” he laughed. “Love, I had a whole speech planned and arealring picked out this time.”

“Do you want me to pretend I don’t know what’s going on?”

“No,” His tone softened, and he threaded his fingers through my hair, then gently tugged me toward him. “I’d rather you just be yourself. Because I love you.”

I gripped his shoulders and rose up on the slightest of tiptoes to press my lips against his. The faint rasp of his stubble against my cheek made my chest warm. He reciprocated with tender eagerness, his hands grasping onto my waist and pulling me flush against him. This, I realized, was what I’d wanted all day. Not the romantic setting, not the candles and roses and paintings—just George. As he was, with all his flaws and quirks and bad jokes. Him and his paint-stained fingers and messy hair and ripped jeans.

George.MyGeorge.

“I love you,” I whispered against his lips as we broke apart.

“I think you’re supposed to save the kiss for after I officially ask you to marry me,” he whispered. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

I sighed and let him go. “Are you going to get around to asking me to marry you then? For real?”

He chuckled and dropped his hands from my back. “Very well.”

With that, he sank onto one knee. The scene was so familiar yet so foreign all at once. We were such different people from those frightened half-strangers, half-lovers we’d been then. Each of us using the other to solve our problems instead of choosing to come together out of love.

“Georgia Charlize Philips,” he said slowly, pulling a ring box out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ve loved you ever since I saw you sitting in that art gallery, transfixed by my painting—”

“I was not transfixed,” I couldn’t help but protest.

“But when you opened your mouth to speak to me, I knew you were the one. And when you rode with me on my motorcycle and squeezed the life out of me—”

“You could breathe just fine!”

“I would really love to finish my planned speech, Georgia, before my knees give out,” he joked. “They click enough as it is.”

“Fine, fine.” I made a zipping motion across my lips and waved for him to continue.

“When you wrapped your arms around me on the motorcycle, I knew you were the only woman who would ever make me feel this deeply alive. Like I’d been living through a colourless dream, and once I met you, I could open my eyes and see reality.

“Georgia, you challenge me to be the best version of myself. You inspire me to create paintings I never thought I could before. When you smile at me, it’s like the sun breaking out on a cloudy day. Just being around you makes life feel like a grand adventure, and I don’t want to spend a single second of that adventure without you by my side. You know I was never one for religion, not until recently, but I believe God has brought us into each other’s lives time and time again for a reason, and I hope that reason was so I couldmake you my wife. We’ve had enough fake relationships and fake marriages, Georgia. Let’s have a real one. Will you marry me?”

Tears blurred my vision, spilling down my cheeks in hot rivulets. “Yes, George. I’ll marry you.”

When I saw the ring, I gasped. An emerald sparkled up at me, surrounded by little round gems that reminded me of Old Hollywood glamour. It was an unconventional stone for an engagement ring—but then again, we’d never been one to follow convention. “I love it.”

“Are you sure? Because I can return—”

I smacked him on the arm. “Shut up. I’m keeping it. I love it.”

He slid it onto my finger, and unlike the old one that I’d returned to him, this felt right at home.

“It’s a perfect fit,” I whispered as he stood and wrapped his arms around me.

“And here I thought that was just us, with the matching names and all that.”

“That’s going to be so confusing. I’m going to be Georgia Devereaux.”

“You could always keep your last name,” he suggested.

I arched an eyebrow at him. “How thoroughly modern of you.”

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