15. Chapter Ten George Devereaux
Chapter Ten: George Devereaux
S ergio Cavalli was shorter than I remembered, or maybe it was the motorcycle boots I wore. His hair flopped over his eyebrows, and his gaze was sad and mopey, reminding me of Eeyore.
“George Devereaux, right?” he asked, extending a hand. “I don’t know if you remember me, but—”
“I know who you are.” He was the guy who had callously dumped Georgia with a two-word text message, then paraded his new fiancée in her face. So why was he here?
Rationally, I knew Georgia was working with him, and from the sounds of it, she was none too happy to see him, either. In fact, she’d probably given him a sterner talking to with her words than I could ever do with my fists—which I still really wanted to do.
“Cool. Um. Listen, I just wanted to apologize. I’m sure you and Georgia are married by now, and so—”
“You shouldn’t apologize to me. You should apologize to her, you pompous playboy.” I ground out the words through my teeth. I didn’t care that we were attracting attention. Sergio Cavalli was yet another irritating, spoiled brat who thought he could use charm and money to get whatever he wanted, including people. Including Georgia.
“I wanted to apologize to her, but she wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”
“Perhaps you should save your apologies, then, since clearly she doesn’t want to hear them.” I pushed past him and walked toward Georgia, who was still sitting at the bank of makeup chairs, heavily made up with her hair half-undone. She sat next to an Asian girl who was vaguely familiar—her name was Leana or Livia or something.
I tried to ignore Sergio’s assumption that Georgia and I were married. The thought wound its way into my mind, pernicious as a weed, mocking me with the fact that we weren’t married. We’d never been real.
I’d come straight here from my office because Abigail had texted me. She was supposed to pick up Georgia from her photoshoot since Georgia’s motorcycle was in the shop, but was running late from an appointment and couldn’t make it. Pennington, the Steeles’ family driver, had the week off, so he couldn’t pick her up either. Agreeing too heartily at any opportunity to see Georgia again, I’d jumped on the chance.
Now it seemed I’d come at the most opportune—or most coincidental—time. Or perhaps Pastor Tony would have called it providential. Leana—I was becoming more sure that Georgia’s friend was named Leana—got out of the makeup chair next to Georgia’s, darting a curious glance between the two of us. She walked toward the exit, leaving me alone with Georgia. Sergio hadn’t followed me, thankfully.
“What are you doing here?” Georgia asked me. She met my eyes in the mirror, but didn’t turn around as she kept taking the pins out of her hair, dropping them onto the vanity with a plink .
“Abby couldn’t make it since she’s running late from an appointment. So she asked me to come get you. What, no ‘thank you for giving me a ride, George?’”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Fine. You can say, ‘thank you for giving me a ride, Mr. Devereaux.’”
She screwed up her face as she yanked another bobby pin out with a wince. Plink . “Absolutely not.”
“Sergio Cavalli seems to be under the mistaken impression that you want to hear his apology.” I’d never seen Georgia at work before. I took in her makeup and hairdo, and how they contrasted with her simple black leggings and t-shirt. She looked beautiful, but not quite like herself.
She took out another pin, but as she did so, a strand of her hair snagged on her necklace. A frustrated growl escaped her lips.
Without thinking, I gently tugged her hair free from the clasp. My fingers brushed her neck, and I could’ve sworn she shivered under my touch.
“Thanks,” she said, so softly I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t been studying her reflection in the mirror and watching her lips move.
“You’re welcome.” The softness in her tone and gaze surprised me. But I clung to that subtle shift in her body language—her shoulders relaxing the slightest bit—like it was a lifeline. I was in over my head, but if she was the ocean, I’d let myself drown. “Do you actually want to talk to Sergio? I can call him over.”
Much as it would have agitated me to see them talking, I wanted her to have the choice. It wasn’t as if I had any say over her decisions anyway. We weren’t in a relationship. I was only the lecturer for one of her classes. Not a friend or a boyfriend, and definitely not her fiancé. Just another stranger.
“Why is it any of your business, George?” Whatever hope I had been harbouring faded to dust as she spoke. “You’re not my fiancé anymore. You’re just my Art History teacher.”
“He thinks we’re married now. He said so when I talked to him.”
“And you want to keep up that lie now? After you broke up with me ?” she hissed, throwing down the last pin. It slid off the vanity and landed on the floor.
“I didn’t do that for the reasons you think, Georgia.”
“Except you did. You got what you wanted from our relationship, and both of our problems were solved, so you left. You always leave. That’s what you do.”
I flinched. You always leave. That’s what you do. She was digging into an old wound there, knowing how things had gone down with my family. Now she was throwing my mistakes in my face, and I was terrified that she was right about me. That I would always be a coward.
She stood, and must have taken my silence as encouragement to continue. “You got your visa and your job and you managed to stay in the States. And you helped me make Sergio jealous at his engagement party. So we’re even. There’s nothing left for you to pretend to be. You don’t get to come back into my life after breaking off our fake relationship and act like you care about me, George.”
“I do care about you. It was never pretend for me.”
“Then why did you break things off with me?” Her expression was flat, neutral, but her voice was laced with tears.
“It’s complicated. I can try to explain.” My voice sounded whiny and ineffectual even to myself.
She shoved at my chest. “You’ve had months to explain. I don’t want to hear it. I’ll get a cab home.”
“Georgia, please let me take you home— ”
“I’ll let you walk out of here before I call security to escort you out. That’s what I’ll let you do. Okay?”
Sighing, I grabbed my motorcycle helmet and walked out of the building.