28. Chapter Twenty-Three Georgia Philips
Chapter Twenty-Three: Georgia Philips
“ Y ou love me?” I hated the way those words fell from my mouth. I sounded like a bumbling schoolgirl with her first crush, not a grown woman who had been in love before. Except, of course, I had only ever been in love with George.
“I think I fell in love with you the moment we started talking about my paintings. Or maybe it was when you insulted my height in that art museum.” He rubbed at his jaw, a grin teasing his lips. “Whenever it was, I just know… I’ve fallen irrevocably in love with you, Georgia. And I don’t care if you hate me for the rest of your life, or if you never feel the same way, or if you can barely tolerate me. If you never want to see me again, if you want me to go back to Canada, I’ll go. Because it wouldn’t be worth it to stay in New York if I couldn’t see you. Even if I have a job here, I— ”
“Shut up.” Tears streamed down my face in earnest now. “Shut up and kiss me.”
He blinked. “Wait, really?”
“Don’t make me say it again. I’ll start to think you don’t want to—”
I was cut off by his lips on mine as he leaned down. This kiss was so gentle, so tender and reverent as his thumbs brushed over my cheeks, softly wiping away my tears. I hated crying, but if it meant George was going to cradle me like I was a priceless treasure, I’d do it any day.
Still, I wanted more from him. Who cared that we were in public where anyone could see us? I cupped the back of his head and drew him in closer, tilting my head up. One of his hands cradled my face, the other twining into my hair and tugging me toward him. Until we were so close that nothing could come between us.
Except, of course, what was always getting in the way of us being together: ourselves.
He pulled away, his hazel eyes piercing mine. “Wait, Georgia, this is wrong.”
“Why?” All my excuses, all my flimsy reasons for our not being together, had been torn apart by the sensation of his mouth against mine and his hands on my skin.
George sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m still your teacher. And we’re… in public.”
I changed my mind. I was never crying again. “I see.”
What more could I say? I’d thought this kiss was going to be the start of something new—or the continuation of what had never died. Instead, I was still standing next to the man who was everything I wanted and couldn’t have. Couldn’t allow myself to want.
“I’m done,” I said softly, stepping back and turning away from him. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Georgia— ”
“I have to go.”
I didn’t know where I was going, only that I couldn’t stay here.
Suddenly, I felt George’s warm hands on my waist, holding me. Steadying me. “Georgia, I love you. I just—”
“You don’t want to be seen with me in public.”
“If I could, I’d spend every day of my life holding hands with you and wandering down every street in Italy. But we’re still here on an educational trip—”
“For one more night. Since when have you cared about following the rules?” In spite of myself, I turned to meet his gaze again.
“Since I realized that I lost you by breaking them,” he breathed, the heat of his body draping over me like a shawl. “When we decided to have a fake relationship, we were breaking the rules. I shouldn’t have ever agreed to that. I should’ve made things real with you, like I’ve wanted to from the moment we met. I’m sorry I didn’t do that before, but please , let me try now. Let me try to be good enough for you.”
I felt like sobbing or laughing or both. “You always have been.”
His hazel eyes widened, seeming to glow in the dim moonlight. “I’ll do my best to believe it. Because you’ve always been more than enough for me, Georgia.”
I took a deep breath that didn’t steady me half as much as his touch did. “Now that we're here, there’s some gelato and a fountain I want to see.”
He pressed a kiss to the side of my neck, and I felt his smile spread against my jaw. “That’s my girl.”
We walked a while, and found ourselves in front of a motorcycle rental shop. I eyed the bike George was renting for the night. It was surprisingly easy to rent a motorcycle in Rome, something I only appreciated now. This one was a similar model and colour to the one we’d ridden the first time we’d been to the fountain. George came out of the shop with the key and two helmets.
I took one from him. “This time, I thought we could switch things around and I could take us there.”
Fortunately, I was wearing biker shorts under my dress.
He arched an eyebrow. “What did we say about you and directions?”
“I definitely didn’t say I would be navigating. However, if you were to gently tap me on the left or right shoulder whenever you want me to turn left or right, I think I’ll manage. Or do you not trust me?”
“I trust you. But let it be known that I’m only doing this because I love you.”
“You’re not sick of saying that yet?” My heart still flipped whenever I heard it.
“I won’t be tired of saying it, even when you’re sick of hearing it.” He tossed a flirty grin in my direction as I slid onto the bike and he got on behind me. The solid warmth of his chest against my back contrasted with the gentle breeze of the summer evening, which whipped through my clothes as we wove through traffic.
George seemed relaxed as I drove, never feeling the need to take control or tell me I was doing something wrong. It was refreshing. The few times I’d driven on a motorcycle with a former friend, he had been critical, nagging, telling me I was doing everything unsafely or with too much caution. George just… trusted me, and gently guided me toward our destination.
A girl could get used to this.
We arrived at the fountain. I spied a gelato shop across from it in the square, which hadn’t been there the last time we’d come here. The courtyard next to the fountain and the ice cream shop was surprisingly empty. Its only inhabitants were a handful of pigeons .
Even if I wasn’t sure what my future would look like, I knew George would be in it. And while I wasn’t sure I could totally accept his words about loving me not for my appearance, I wanted to try to believe them.
Which meant ice cream.
“Is your favourite ice cream flavour still what I think it is?” George asked, holding my hand as we walked toward the gelato shop. We’d left our helmets hanging on the bike’s handlebars. It was quiet enough here compared to the Trevi Fountain that no one would steal it.
“I don’t have a favourite flavour.” That was true; I’d tried almost every kind of ice cream there was, even charcoal ice cream on a dare once.
“That’s what I thought.” A smug grin curved his lips upwards.
“And yours is still chocolate hazelnut?”
“I know what I like.” He looked at me in a way that assured me he wasn’t only talking about ice cream.
We ordered; I picked a lemon-flavoured gelato and he got his favourite, as I’d predicted. George paid, something I didn’t protest. On the few dates I’d been on before him, I’d always felt guilty about not splitting the bill with a man. Often, that was because I never wanted to see him again and he’d let me down in some minor way: he picked his teeth at the table, his taste in music was reprehensible, or he didn’t know the difference between ‘there, their, and they’re’.
But with George, though I recognized his flaws, somehow, they didn’t seem to matter as much as the things I loved about him. I wasn’t looking for an excuse to end our time together, but only seeking every reason to continue it.
We sat on the bench overlooking the fountain and enjoyed our scoops of ice cream in silence. It had been so long since I’d had this much sugar that, even though the lemon gelato was only faintly sweet, I thought I might die of happiness. Or be overwhelmed by a sugar rush. The two sensations were remarkably similar.
“There’s something I want to show you,” George said after a moment. “If you’ll let me.”
“What is it?” I spun around to face him, eyes widening.
“I’m not just going to tell you so easily. What would be the fun in that?” A teasing grin played on his lips.
I leaned in and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “How about now?”
He folded his arms across his chest and affected a stoic expression. “Nope.”
“Boring. Well, are you going to show me or not?”
“Yes. But I’m going to drive.” He reached for the key, which I’d put in my purse.
“You don’t trust me? After all that we’ve been through?” I clapped my hand over my chest dramatically.
“I don’t want to spoil the surprise. So I think the question is, do you trust me ?”
I was surprised that I did. After everything that had happened, all that he’d done, all that we’d said and accused each other of and all the ways we’d hurt each other… I still trusted him.
I handed him the key.
***
The small building that George pulled up to was plain on the outside. It was a cozy bungalow, small and unassuming. But through the shutters on the windows, I glimpsed the faint gleam of a gilt frame, then the vivid green and blue brushstrokes of a painting .
I knew it had to be somewhere important to him. And that meant it was important to me, too.
“Welcome to my studio.” George held open the door for me to walk through.
I stepped into what had to be the most wondrous place in the world. To my left was a small kitchenette and a dining area with two chairs and a small, round wooden table. But to the right, nearly every conceivable surface—from the walls to the ceiling to the cloth-draped furniture—was covered in paintings. There was an easel in the centre of the room with a blank canvas on it, and a paint palette and brushes beside it on a small table. As if the artist had walked away in the middle of finishing his art collection and would come back to it an hour or two later. However, the copious amounts of dust that tickled my nose and throat proved otherwise.
“What is this place?” I asked. Obviously, it was where George kept many of his paintings—I could see his trademark style in each of the pieces, his signature in the corner, and the brushstrokes and the motifs he always used—but I’d never known he had a place like this. “I assumed you hadn’t been here in years, from all the dust.”
In all our time together in Italy when we’d first met, he’d never told me about this place.
“I’ve kept a studio here for ages. I always wanted to return and get my things back, but the timing was never right. I haven’t come back since I fled Italy after the Sebastian thing.”
“Weren’t you ever worried that someone would break in or steal something?”
“No, I’m friends with the woman next door, and she keeps an eye on the place.”
I arched an eyebrow at him, mentally picturing a charming Italian woman who resembled Monica Bellucci .
“She’s a widow with grandchildren who lets them play in her yard most of the time,” George said, as if reading my mind. “When I lived in Italy, she used to bring me homemade focaccia. She said I reminded her of the son she never had.”
“Cool.” I surveyed the paintings, many of which were covered in white cloths as well. “Can I see your work?”
“Of course. That’s why I brought you here.”
He crossed the room toward one of the cloth-covered frames. Then he coughed. “Maybe we should dust in here before we start looking at the paintings, though.”
“George, are you trying to distract me from the purpose of our visit? Because I once saw you wipe your hands on your jeans after eating, so I highly doubt a little dust is your top priority right now.”
“Well, it’s hard not to be nervous when you’re the inspiration for all my paintings.“ With that, he tugged on the dropcloth, then yanked it off the frame.
I bit my lip to keep from gasping, worried that the ensuing cloud of dust particles would land in my mouth. “Is that…”
It was me. A painting of my back, in the exact outfit I’d been wearing when we had met at the same little art museum, sitting on the bench staring at his painting. The one he’d gifted me later that night.
“It’s you,” he whispered. “All these paintings—they’re all of you.”
I stalked toward the painting, my body humming with nervous energy and disbelief as I ran my fingers over the canvas. I felt the ridges and brushstrokes of the paint, and saw how he’d captured every detail of the scene so perfectly. My hair was in the braided bun it had been on the day we’d met. I wore the white dress I’d had on that fateful day, and around me were the same paintings. The only difference was that the room was completely empty of people, and a faint golden glow emanated from my silhouette .
“When I saw you that day,” George said, his voice a gentle murmur that caressed my skin as he stood behind me while I gazed at the painting. “It was like the rest of the world stopped existing—or at the very least, stopped mattering to me. I’d seen you come back to the museum so many times just to look at that one painting. I had to know you. I had to get inside your mind. I had to figure out who you were, why you were looking at my painting like that. I had to know what was going on inside your head.
“I didn’t even think I’d talk to you, at first. Usually, when I have an exhibit at a museum, I might come back once or twice to gauge what people think of it. But the first day I saw you staring at that painting, you looked so… entranced. So captivated. I came back the next day hoping I’d see you again. Then again and again, until I finally struck up the courage to talk to you. And you are… so much more than I ever imagined you would be.” His hand fell on my waist. “I love you, Georgia Philips.”
His words wrapped around me, a wave of love crashing over me and filling all the cracks in my heart with warmth. “I love you, too, George.”