23. Chapter Eighteen Georgia Philips
Chapter Eighteen: Georgia Philips
A fter an eight and a half hour flight, I was ready to stretch my legs. Unfortunately, it was midnight by the time we arrived in Rome. After we checked into our hotel, I found myself lugging my suitcase, duffel bag, and purse up three flights of stairs because European hotels didn’t have elevators. I guess I’d gotten what I wanted in the form of cardio.
George was right behind me, easily carrying his one suitcase and remaining quiet. He knew better than to offer to assist me or make me accept his help again. After what I’d said to him on the plane, I didn’t blame him.
Still, I made a mental note to take weightlifting more seriously when I got home. Clearly, my combination of cycling, Pilates, and barre classes wasn’t cutting it when it came to dragging fifty pounds of clothes, shoes, and toiletries up the stairs.
After what felt like ten years of playing bellhop, I made it to my room: 302 .
George, instead of continuing on to the next floor like I’d expected him to, followed right behind me. And when I fiddled with my belongings to find my hotel room key, he was in the room right next to mine.
Of course he was. I was lucky that by the grace of God we weren’t forced to share a room with one bed like a cheesy romance novel.
I was mature enough to share a hallway—and a hotel room wall—with my ex-fake-fiancé. Or love of my life. Of course I was.
Without taking another look over my shoulder, I heaved my belongings into the small room and made short work of unpacking. I wasn’t friends with any of the other students, so I’d opted for a single bed and no roommates, although splitting a room might have made the experience cheaper.
I remembered another time I’d been in Italy, for Katerina’s bachelorette trip. That had ended in panicked danger. Fortunately, this trip shouldn’t have that same ending.
But when I thought back to how I’d left things with George after we’d met in Italy before Katerina’s bachelorette, thoughts of danger resurfaced.
George had been involved in Sebastian Cavalli’s money laundering scheme when I met him. It was only in the few days before I’d left that Sebastian’s accomplices had been arrested as part of an anti-corruption crackdown in Italy and George had realized what his alleged friend was doing. He’d cut ties with Sebastian and, fearing the wrath of the Cavallis, had made plans to leave Italy. He’d asked me to come with him to Los Angeles.
I’d told him I couldn’t, and that was the end of us.
Or so I had thought.
Little did I know he would turn out to be my cousin-in-law’s brother. Little did I know he would show up in New York, and we would come up with our mutually-beneficial marriage arrangement.
As I finished unpacking, and began washing my face and brushing my teeth to prepare myself for bed, my mind still raced with thoughts. After I’d finished changing into pyjamas and curled up with my fantasy novel about dragons, I couldn’t absorb myself in the magical world no matter how hard I tried.
Instead, all I could think about was how things had gone down between me and George when I’d discovered it was, in fact, a small world after all…
***
One Year Ago
A soft evening glow suffused the guest bedroom at the Steele penthouse. It seeped through the curtains, bathing George Devereaux’s face in a warm amber glow.
“I thought I’d never see you again.” I kept my hands in the pockets of my oversized lavender hoodie, staring at George’s left elbow. Not the most romantic line of sight—but then again, he wasn’t my boyfriend. We’d never even kissed.
I’d been too worried that someone would see us and the rumours would be reported back to my fake boyfriend.
“I missed you, Georgia,” he whispered. He managed to brand my name with desperation and reverence all at once. “Every moment of every day. ”
“You could have called. Or texted. I know I said I didn’t want to come to Los Angeles with you, but that doesn’t mean you had to drop off the face of the earth.”
“I’m sorry.” He sat on the bench in front of the guest bed, all lanky limbs and scruffy beard.
George was more dishevelled than he had been when we had met in Italy. I’d never seen him with this much stubble or in such messy attire. Instead of seeming foreign to me, I marvelled at how every different side of him that I saw only drew me in more. Especially this one, sitting in front of me and saying he’d missed me.
I remained standing, and leaned back against the dresser. “You’re sorry ?”
“I am. And I know it’s not enough to be sorry. I went through… You know my father died. I understand that it’s not an excuse, but…”
My father had died, too. “And your mom?”
“She passed away about twelve years ago. Of cancer.”
My heart broke for him and the scared little boy he must have been once, losing first his mother and now his father. Now he and Katerina only had each other. “ I’m sorry.”
“You couldn’t have known. I should have told you. I should’ve reached out. But after everything that happened with Sebastian and then my father… I was ashamed of who I was. I was ashamed of what I’d done. I didn’t feel I deserved to see you and talk to you again.”
“ Deserve ?“ I repeated. I had to stop sounding like a parrot. I pulled my shoulders back, straightening up. “If we got anything we deserved, I don’t think we’d be in this room together right now.”
“No,” he agreed. “I’d be in prison. You’d be on some catwalk or in a cafe in Paris with a man buying you a coffee.”
“You could be the man buying me coffee.” ‘I missed you’ was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“I’ve done that before. I have to say, I’d like to do it again.” He leaned back on the bench, propping himself up on his elbows as he stared at me.
In the light of the setting sun, his hazel eyes seemed to burn like embers as they pierced mine.
“There’s one thing we never did in Italy,” I heard myself say.
“And what’s that?” Gone was the feline, languid movement he had had when he’d sprawled out on the bench. He stood with military precision, and strode toward me, his long legs eating up the carpeted distance between us.
“This.” I rested my hands lightly on his shoulders and stretched up on my tiptoes, brushing my lips over his in the barest whisper of a kiss.
“ Oh . ” The syllable was a sigh laden with frustration, and yearning finally fulfilled.
He rested one hand on the small of my back, fingers splaying across my waist like he wanted to touch as much of me as possible. His other hand threaded into my hair as he pulled me against him, turning my gentle peck into a passionate kiss.
His lips were urgent, reckless in their need for mine. I’d been kissed before, but never like this. Never like I was all he needed, all he wanted to cherish. He cradled my face gently, cupped my cheek with reverence, as though I were more precious to him than any priceless artwork. Precious, but not breakable.
“Georgia,” he murmured when he pulled away after a moment, still close enough that his nose brushed mine. “We should have done this in Italy. We should have done everything in Italy.”
As much as I wanted to agree, I couldn’t deny that my fake relationship with Sergio had opened doors for my professional life just as my agent had promised it would. Would a vacation fling—no matter how well George kissed—have been worth that?
“We’re here now,” I said. “We’re together now.”
That seemed to quash his regret, and he kissed me again. Slower, but with just as much fervour, his slow-burning intensity as palpable as his scent of sea salt and sage. His hands were more tender, caressing rather than grasping, and each movement more intentional. I intertwined my fingers at his nape and revelled in the feeling of his warmth and solid strength against me.
Was it possible to not realize you’d been missing something— someone —so desperately until you had them?
“What does this mean?” I asked George when we broke apart from the kiss.
“I don’t know.” He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t usually make long-term plans.”
What was I thinking? I wasn’t one for long-term relationships either. Or any real relationships at all.
“Right.” I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling suddenly cold. “I don’t want to date anyone right now. I mean, I can’t. I’m still technically in a fake relationship with Sergio.”
Hurt and anger and confusion flashed across his face. “You kissed me while you’re with someone else?”
“It’s just a fake relationship. For publicity. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means something to me,” he snapped. “If I’m going to be with you–”
“And that’s an ‘if’, George. Just like you don’t make long-term plans. We’re not a couple. We just had a vacation fling.”
He snorted. “If what we had was just a fling, then I wouldn’t be here in this room with you right now. And we wouldn’t have done what we just did. I want you, Georgia. All of you.”
“I guess I can’t give you that. Not while I’m pretending to date Sergio.” I shoved my hands in the pockets of my hoodie, wishing I could burrow into it and never come out. “This was a mistake. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
His eyes darkened with anger. “That makes two of us.”
I left the guest bedroom and slammed the door behind me.
***
When I woke up the next morning, my mouth and eyes felt drier than the Sahara Desert, and my lips were chapped. I rubbed my eyes, and saw little flakes of mascara peel off onto my hands. Ugh. I’d forgotten to take off my makeup last night and my cleanser hadn’t been thorough enough to remove everything.
Checking the time, I saw that it was almost seven. Still early enough that I could get in a quick workout and shower, then put on makeup before our scheduled meeting time of nine am in the lobby. I opened my laptop to do a YouTube Pilates workout before showering and getting dressed.
I went through the motions of my morning routine and found myself checking social media almost reflexively, to see how many likes or comments my newest post had gotten me. It was a picture of the brownies I’d baked with the girls, with a caption about indulging in a sweet treat every once in a while. Not that I’d had more than half a bite of a brownie that day.
I wasn’t sure why I checked social media. Seeing the red heart notification pop up barely gave me the same satisfaction it once had. The fact that a large fraction of the comments were from lecherous men made me want to turn off my comments section entirely.
I threw my phone into my purse after applying a coat of lipstick and spritzing my face with setting spray to make sure my makeup held up in the Italian summer. It was going to be upwards of eighty degrees today.
Thinking about my first kiss with George hadn’t improved my sleep last night. Knowing he was one room over while I thought about kissing him was as embarrassing as walking around with my skirt tucked into my underwear.
Smoothing down the collar of my linen maxi dress, I packed my belt bag with the essentials: a water bottle, money clip, a notebook and pen, and a camera. I didn’t care if they made me look like a tourist; that was the point of this trip.
As I descended the stairs in search of breakfast—one small pain au chocolat wouldn’t ruin my diet if I paired it with lots of walking and an espresso, right?—familiar footsteps trailed me.
I didn’t have to turn around to know it was George. I would have known him anywhere, his motorcycle boots clomping on the floor without heed for anyone who might still be sleeping at eight-thirty.
“Good morning.”
It wasn’t fair that his voice still had that faintly raspy, husky quality to it as if he’d just gotten out of bed. I didn’t want to turn around to see him, in case he had just rolled out of bed and still sported that deliciously unkempt bedhead that always made me want to run my fingers through his hair.
Focus, Georgia. You’re here to admire the art. Not artists.
“Morning.” Whether it was a good one remained to be seen.
We made our way down the stairs and I wished desperately for an elevator as my legs burned from the squats and lunges I’d done this morning.
We descended into the lobby and I seized upon the smell of coffee like a bloodhound. Inside the hotel’s first floor was a small coffee shop .
George trailed me as I walked toward the coffee shop. Addressing him, I spun around with my hands on my hips. “You don’t need to follow me everywhere.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Georgia. It’s just a coincidence that I’m in the room next to yours, got up at the same time that you did, and then had a craving for caffeine.”
“Maybe I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Call it God’s Providence, then.”
I rolled my eyes and scanned the menu. Fortunately, it was written in Italian and English. I ordered a small pain au chocolat and an espresso.
“Espresso?” George said after he’d placed his order and we waited for our food and drinks by the counter.
“I told you, Mr. Devereaux, I’ve changed. I take my coffee black now.” I turned away from him to distract from the obvious lie. “Besides, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
“I’ll trade you,” he said. “I got a caramel macchiato.”
I hated and loved him for knowing my favourite coffee order. “No, thank you.”
“You can have a sip of mine, then.”
“Maybe I don’t want anything your lips have touched.”
“Are you worried it’ll tempt you?”
My hands curled into fists at my sides and I scanned the lobby. “Other students could be here. At least try to be professional.”
I took a not-so-subtle step away from him.
“Very well. But people might wonder how you’re getting away with being so antagonistic toward your instructor.”
“Have you considered that it’s because you gave me a bad grade for no reason? ”
“I gave you plenty of time to resubmit that assignment. You still haven’t.”
The barista called my order and my name and I gratefully accepted it, eager to get away from George.
An ocean of hurt and memories lay between us. Yet I still couldn’t stop myself from sandcastles in low tide, knowing full well he’d obliterate them every time.