Page 72 of The Artist and the Muse

“Did you think I was a chest-thumping Neanderthal?”

“No, but your style usually gives off lumberjack vibes.”

He rolled his eyes. “You can keep your last name if you think it’ll be too confusing. As long as you’re my wife, I don’t care what you call yourself.”

“No. I want to be a Devereaux.” I slid my arms around his waist, leaning down slightly to rest my cheek against his chest. “Don’t you think a pastry chef would be more convincing with a French name?”

“So you’re taking my name to advance your career? Diabolical.” His teasing grin paired with the languid way he stroked my hair suggested he wasn’t all that offended by my choice.

“You knew that about me already,” I retorted.

“All I knew about you was that I wanted to see you smile. To be the one to make you laugh. To hear your voice every day, for the rest of my life, even if you were insulting me or making fun of me.”

“You’re so cheesy.” I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face as I said the words, though.

“And you love it.”

“I’d love to be a Devereaux.” Georgia Devereaux. It felt right. I’d never known the man who gave me my last name, and though I bore no ill will against him, I wanted to have the last name of someone who loved me and knew me, since my mother would always be a Steele in our family’s eyes.

“That’s good, because I already hand-calligraphed our wedding invitations,” he deadpanned.

I laughed, looking up at him. As I did so, my eyes caught on the paintings around the room. “Where did you get all this artwork from anyway?”

“Georgia,” he said slowly, picking up one of the candles and using a tone that suggested I was a fool for not having figured it out earlier. "They’re all paintings I did ofyou.”

As flickering candlelight illuminated the painting closest to us, I saw it was of me in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a white apron tied messily over my clothes, hair up in a topknot and a smear of flour on my cheek. My breath hitched as I looked at different one: Abigail, Katerina, and I, on the couch watching a movie, but my face was closer and in focus while the other two were blurrier behind me. I was looking up at him and laughing. Another of me, wearing a greenavocado mask with my hair up in a towel, bathrobe on. Even one of me on a motorcycle, all the way back when we’d first met. And finally, a tiny wallet-sized picture of me that was worn and crumpled in a way that suggested he’d carried it around in his actual wallet for ages before taking it out.

He’d painted me. Not at what I thought was my most beautiful or composed or perfect.

But me, just as I was, just as he saw me. Perfectly imperfect. Living my everyday, mundane life—a life he managed to infuse with beauty and wonder and whimsy.

“This is how I see you,” George murmured. “Yes, you’re beautiful, but you’re so much more than that. You don’t have to be perfect, and you never had to be. I love you for the beautiful creations you make in the kitchen, and the surprising things you say, and the sound of your laugh. For everything that you are, Georgia.”

More tears welled up in my eyes and I hastily blinked them away.

“Thank you.”

“No, Georgia. Thank you for letting me try to love you as you deserve to be loved.”

We stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, before he broke the silence. “I actually invited all your family over to the penthouse to celebrate, so we will have to leave this room at some point.”

As if on cue, Abigail’s voice rang through the room, slightly muffled by the door. “Do you think they’re done yet?”

I burst out laughing. “Let’s put them out of their misery, then.”

We walked out hand in hand toward my family, and our future.

Chapter Thirty-Two: Georgia Philips

An Italian cathedral wedding where the bride wore motorcycle boots with a knee-length white dress and her uncle walked her down the aisle was far from conventional, but for me and George, convention was overrated.

As I clutched Uncle Aaron’s arm, my eyes blurred with tears. Through my tears, I saw Abigail mouth at me to stop crying so I wouldn’t ruin my makeup. Fortunately, I’d forgone my usual thick eyeliner today and applied waterproof mascara and berry lip gloss instead.

All the tabloids who’d wanted to report on the model-turned-chef’s wedding to a successful painter and art teacher would be sorely disappointed when they saw what I was wearing. I’d acquired my dress at a thrift store for fifty-seven dollars and I didn’t even have a tiara or a veil. Unlike Abigail and Katerina’s fancier weddings, this was simple.

I carried a bouquet of pink and yellow wildflowers, whose stems matched the groomsmen’s green ties and my engagement ring. The bridesmaids—Allie, Katerina, and Abigail—wore matchingknee-length dresses in different shades of emerald and sage green, and held matching bouquets of pink and yellow calla lilies.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” Pastor Tony asked. I smiled at the sight of him in his suit and bolo tie. Gratitude overwhelmed me at the thought of how he’d flown all the way to Italy to officiate our wedding.

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