Page 74 of The Artist and the Muse

“Even Alex? What about the time he put frogs in your ballet slippers?”

“Okay, fine, not Alex. Just you, then.”

She squeezed my hand again before dropping it. “That’s what I thought.”

I laughed, and she entered the reception venue ahead of me, joining her husband, who had just exited the groomsmen’s limo.

Once, I spied George, we linked arms and walked in together, not without casting a longing look at the fountain outside.

As we entered the reception venue, guests were filing into their assigned seats. George grabbed refreshments while I joined Katerinaat the wedding party’s table. She was watching Alexander try to feed olive oil-soaked bread to a picky toddler—Mattias.

“I never thought I would see my cousin become a dad, let alone such a good one,” I told her. “You’ve really done wonders on him. Well, you, and God.”

Katerina’s brows arched in surprise. “You know, Georgia, you’ve come a long way since we first talked about God.”

“Have I?” I studied the restaurant around us: candles flickered on the tables, which were covered by white tablecloths. The centrepiece at each table was a mini sculpture made of marble, shaped like our embracing silhouettes. George had commissioned them from a local artisan. Each guest’s wedding favour was a cookie in the shape of a small turtle, a nod to the fountain outside.

“Do you remember the conversation we first had in the hallway next to the portrait of Allie? You told me you’d never seen Alexander look at anyone the way he did at me. And I gave you my whole spiel on God and what I believed about marriage.”

“I’ll always remember your spiel.” It was true; her speech about God had left an indelible impression on me. “You seemed so confident in a way that was unlike anyone I knew. It wasn’t the kind of arrogance I was used to or vapid self-centredness. Instead, you were—no, you are—grounded in something bigger than yourself.”

The Lord.

“Thanks, Georgia.” Katerina smiled at me, and her eyes were glassy with tears. “What I’m trying to say is, you no longer seem as skeptical about God as you were then.”

“Thank you, Kat.” Her words meant a lot to me, because I knew she didn’t toss them around idly.

The wedding planner announced that it was time for everyone to sit down for dinner, so the last of the guests and the wedding party took their seats.

Each table took turns getting up to pile their plates with pasta, lasagna, meatballs, and heaping spoonfuls of parmesan cheese. I made sure to save room for dessert, knowing the gelato bar would be to die for. I’d already spotted a dazzling array of flavours there, from hazelnut to tiramisu to lemon.

Pastor Tony said a blessing over the food before we dug in, and as I watched the cheerful faces of my friends and family chatting away, I was certain I’d never felt more content. I’d spent so much of my life striving for something—whether it was thinness or modelling success or to feel like I belonged in my family—that I rarely got to sit down and enjoy what I had.

And with the bakery taking off in the past year, alongside wedding planning, I’d barely had time to breathe.

“A kiss for your thoughts?” George asked, tapping me on the shoulder in between bites of pasta. I was taking my time, savouring all the flavours of the marinara and alfredo sauces of the tagliatelle and fusilli I had on my plate.

“Are you sure you don’t mean a penny?”

“No, I mean a kiss,” he said with a smirk.

“I thought we were supposed to let our guests tell us when to kiss,” I said, though I couldn’t deny that I wanted to feel his lips against mine again.

As if on cue, people began clinking their teaspoons against their water glasses. I caught Jamie’s eye in the crowd and she winked at me; I’d called her shortly after George had proposed, and we’d remained close friends since the Italy trip.

“Well, if you insist.” George curved his hand around my nape and tugged me toward him so we were kissing again. This kiss felt like coming home.

I no longer had to be an outsider, watching from the sidelines, hoping to belong. George Devereaux was my home now.

Chapter Thirty-Three: George Devereaux

As I held my wife in my arms, I looked forward to whisking her away from our wedding. As much fun as today had been, I wanted to be alone with her on our honeymoon—the destination of which was still a surprise to her.

I would be taking her to Montréal where I’d grown up. We would eat poutine, wander through the underground city—which was essentially a cooler name for the subway tunnels—and go toLa Grande Roue, the giant Ferris wheel by the water.

She was convinced we were just going to stay in Italy after the wedding was over. However, there were too many Cavallis in Italy for my liking, even after Sergio and Sebastian had both made up with us. I didn’t want to risk running into any of them.

Not when my honeymoon with my new wife ought to be a sacred thing, a hallowed time set apart for just the two of us.

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