Page 8 of The Artist and the Muse

I’d never thought I would meet a woman who seemed to be my match in nearly everything.

Georgia Philips, however, was something else.

She nearly matched me in height—she stood at approximately five-foot-ten—and she had a air of inquisitiveness about her that drew me in. The way she appreciated my paintings gave me more respect for her than I’d had before we’d talked.

Some of the women I’d surrounded myself with since I’d left Montréal four years ago had been interested in art in a purely intellectual way, eager to have long discussions about techniques and history. Or they had been utterly clueless about art, only with me for the money or fame they thought I would bring them.

To those women, I’d been an object to use, or a stepping stone to the next brighter, sparklier star. Georgia, though, after I’d observed her for the past few days, seemed different. At least, I was hoping she was different. I hoped she could see past my fame to the person I really was.

Still, the way her mouth hung open after I told her about my true identity made a smile tug at my lips. “And no, I’m not upset that you’re seeing my studio.”

She did the unexpected: she gave my arm a gentle smack. “I thought you would be some puny little French artist, like a Degas or Cézanne.”

An ungentlemanly noise of protest, mingled with disbelief and amusement, burst from my throat. “That’s the first thing you have to say? You meet the artist whose work you’ve beenswooningover and you tell me you thought I’d be shorter and skinnier?”

It was Georgia’s turn to choke. “I neverswoonedover you.”

“I said you swooned over myart, but it’s nice to know you were crushing on me, too.”

“I most certainly wasnot. I just pictured you a certain way, and… you’re definitely not how I imagined you. Are you even French?”

The thought of the stunning woman in front of me conjuring up visions of how I might appear—based on my initials and my last name—warmed my heart more than it should have. “I’m from Montréal originally.”

“So, French-lite. Knockoff French.”

“French Canadian. We speak French in Montréal,mademoiselle.” I chuckled at her dismissiveness over my hometown. “What about my appearance was surprising to you?”

“You’re just really…” She swept her gaze over my form before locking her eyes with mine. “Tall. And you’re… scruffier than I thought an artist would be.”

“Now you’re insulting my grooming?” I couldn’t help the smile spreading across my face at her attempts to categorize me.

She threw her hands in the air. “All I’m saying is, you give off lumberjack vibes.”

“Lumberjack vibes,” I repeated. My exercise regimen must have paid off. I spent the days I had creative block at the gym, swimming at my apartment building’s pool, or doing frenetic pushups until the image came to me of how a painting should look. “I’m flattered. Can this lumberjack buy you dinner tonight?”

“Did you give me your painting just so you can take me to dinner?” she asked. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a man go to such lengths to take me on a date before.”

“I hope to be the first man to impress you in more ways than that, if you’ll let me. Mostly with my art.”

Her blue eyes had a light to them that reminded me of the clear blue Italian skies outside, and the endless summers on the Amalfi coast. She made me crave a canvas to capture her with, to encapsulate this moment forever.

“Well, it won’t be with your manners.” She planted a hand on her hip playfully. “Has anyone ever told you it’s presumptuous to ask out women you’ve just met, when all you know is their name?”

“I also know you have excellent taste in art, but very well. My exhibit here is being cleared out today. After that, I’ll be free to explore Italy and see everything I’ve missed while stuck in this studio. If you’d care to join me?”

“I came to Italy with my cousin. She’s probably wondering where I am.”

“Tell her you were swept off your feet by a dashing stranger.”

“Then she’ll definitely call the cops. Do you want Interpol hunting you down?”

“No, then my family might find me.” The words slipped far too easily from my lips. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, but it was too late to take it back now.

Instead of being shocked by my answer, she stepped closer. The scent of her perfume—orange blossoms and almonds—wafted toward me. “Relatable.”

“Didn’t you just say something about being here with your cousin?”

“It’s theothermembers of my family that I have a problem with. I’ll flee the country to avoid her brother Alexander any day.” Her phone buzzed, breaking the spell her eyes had put me under. “I bet that’s my cousin right now. I’ll see you for dinner, George Devereaux.”

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