Page 73 of The Artist and the Muse

“I do,” Uncle Aaron said, stepping forward. He gave me a small, reassuring smile as I blinked back my tears.

George offered me his arm as Uncle Aaron went to take his seat next to his wife. We turned to face each other, and my tears dried as the gravity of the moment struck me.

George cleared his throat, pulling a folded piece of paper from his chest pocket. “Georgia, I vow to always love you, even on days when I don’t feel like it. I promise to take care of you when you’re sick, to hold your hair back when you throw up, and to let you see all of my new paintings before anyone else.

“I promise to dance with you in the kitchen, to lick the batter off your spatulas, and to always be your taste tester for new recipes. I vow to always go on motorcycle rides with you, to get gelato with you, and to always return to Italy with you whenever we feel like it.” He squeezed my hands. “Most importantly, I vow to never stop falling for you, and to never stop being inspired by you, my muse.”

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I composed myself. “George, I promise to never stop annoying you with my snarky comments. I promise to love you even when things aren’t perfect, to hold you when you’ve had a long day, and to make up after we fight. I promise to be your model for as many paintings as you want. And I promise that no matter how much time passes, I’ll never take you for granted, and we’ll always make our way back here. To where we first fell in love.”

He gave me a look that told me he knew I wasn’t just talking about Italy or even the art museum where we’d met. I meant the adventurous, carefreejoie de vivrewe’d been filled with so many years ago—the same spirit of adventure and romance that I prayed would suffuse our lives for years to come.

We exchanged rings with the help of three-year-old Mattias Steele, who carefully brought us the rings on a velvet cushion as he was guided by his grandmother, my Aunt Ava.

“Repeat after me,” Pastor Tony instructed.

“With this ring, I, George Devereaux, wed you, Georgia Philips,” George repeated, and he slid the wedding band onto my finger.

Pastor Tony instructed me to do the same.

“With this ring, I, Georgia Philips, wed you, George Devereaux.”

“You may now kiss the bride.”

George set a hand on the small of my back, his fingers splaying across my waist as he tugged me toward him. In my motorcycle boots, there was no need for me to rise onto my toes; we were almost perfectly aligned with one another. I was grateful I had chosen not to wear a veil as George rested his fingers under my chin, tipping my head back the slightest degree so my lips reached his.

This kiss was passionate and gentle all at once. His hand on my back pulled me firmly against him, but his lips softly teased mine with the promise of more. I carded my fingers through his gelled hair, undoing the style until it was as messy as it usually was. It could have lasted hours; it could have lasted seconds for all I knew. Camera flashes and the voices of the guests all faded to the background, leaving me alone with my husband. When we broke apart, a lipstick smudge stood out on his chin, and I wiped it off with my thumb, grinning.

“I present to you for the first time, Mr. George and Mrs. Georgia Devereaux!” Pastor Tony declared.

Clapping and cheering broke out as we made our way back down the aisle hand-in-hand, their applause surrounding us like a warm hug. I waved and smiled at our family and friends, laughing as I saw Matty jumping up and down in the pile of flower petals that the flower girl—one of George’s art students—had dumped on the floor.

“How does it feel to be Georgia Devereaux?” George whispered as we leaned over the table to sign the paperwork that would legally bind us as husband and wife.

“Pretty good, but I feel like I should have practiced spelling my new last name at least a couple of times before we did this whole wedding thing,” I joked as I signed the form.

Katerina stepped up next, along with Alexander to sign the form to witness our wedding.

“Come on,” I said, tugging on George’s sleeve when we had finished signing. “Let’s get back to our adoring public.”

He rolled his eyes but a ghost of a smile flickered over his face. “Yes, my love.”

***

After the wedding ceremony, we spent an hour taking pictures before we headed to the reception venue. I would have liked to celebrate our wedding outside the turtle fountain where we’d had our first date. However, George had looked into it and it was apparently forbidden for foreigners to hold large gatherings in that courtyard. So, we had settled for a reception in one of the restaurants overlooking the fountain instead.

The bridal party were all travelling in one car, the groomsmen in another. All the guests had found their own transportation to thereception. Though we didn’t have many guests to begin with—mostly family friends who Uncle Aaron had invited, or friends of my mom, since the Steeles were footing the bill for the wedding.

“How does it feel to be married?” Abigail asked me, as she exited the limo behind me.

“Aren’t you already married? I feel like I should be askingyouwhat marriage is like,“ I said, grateful I was wearing my boots rather than stiletto heels for traversing the cobblestone paths.

“I meantnewlymarried. To George.“ Abigail gave me a good-natured shake of her head.

My cheeks hurt from smiling, both for the pictures and out of uncontrollable joy. “It feels… reassuring. Like I have someone who will be in my corner no matter what. I mean, I know I’ll always have you guys, but I’ve always felt like an outsider to the Steele siblings. Now I finally have a family of my own.”

“Oh, Georgia.” Despite being much shorter than me, Abigail crushed me in a hug. “I love you. I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“It’s okay. I always wanted siblings growing up. But you guys were a pretty good substitute.”

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