36. Chapter Thirty-One Georgia
Chapter Thirty-One: Georgia
One Year Later
T he enormous emerald ribbon outside Georgia’s Pie Shoppe was ready to be cut, and George stood by with giant shears for me to do just that. Above us, the sky was bright and clear, matching the cerulean balloons tied in bunches outside my new bakery. After graduating with my Anthropology degree, I’d spent the past year getting a culinary and business license, working overtime on both pursuits. Quitting modelling had been the right choice. I’d never been happier.
While at times I still caught myself measuring out what I ate, counting calories in my head, or wanting to hop on the nearest treadmill as ‘punishment’ for having a slice of chocolate cake, I knew that with time and prayer, that would fade. I would be able to enjoy life—and food—as God had intended.
George squeezed my hand with his free one before I picked up the microphone and stood in front of the restaurant, where I would give my grand opening speech. Those present were our closest family and friends.
“You’re going to do great.”
“I’m not nervous,” I responded and found myself believing the words. To my surprise, although I’d harboured so much fear over what might happen if I quit modelling and moved onto something else, it was freeing not to have the constant questions about what could happen now that I was finally in it.
“That’s my girl.” He kissed my cheek before I cleared my throat.
“Thank you everyone for coming. As some of you may know, I never thought I would become a chef, let alone a restaurant owner, but here I am. It’s all thanks to those of you who loved and supported me, and encouraged me to pursue my dreams even when I was too scared to do so. I hope you enjoy being my first customers.”
Applause rose up around me as I stepped off the platform, and George handed me the comically oversized scissors to cut the ribbon in half. It fell to the ground in two halves, to the sound of more clapping and cheering.
After I propped open the doors with the makeshift podium remnants, I welcomed people inside.
The bakery was a small space, just big enough for a handful of tables and chairs. Inside, the decoration was a mix of retro fifties diner and the Italian countryside. It was a strange combination, but it made me happy and it seemed to work together. A large counter at the back was filled with savoury and sweet baked goods, from chicken pot pie to croissants to Danishes. The windows were arched, and there was even a cozy nook in the corner with round, overstuffed chairs for reading or studying. And of course, there was plenty of coffee.
“I’m so proud of you, Georgia.” Before turning around, I already knew it was George speaking. “This place is amazing and I know everyone will love it.”
“Thank you.” I sighed as I watched the people crowd around, examining the food in the glass case. I had hired two cooks with plenty of experience, and I’d be popping in to check on everyone and run the cash register and all that, but for one tiny moment, I let myself relax.
George wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Hey, I didn’t know you had that painting in here.”
A Fair Maiden and her Knight hung across from the door, so that it was the first thing customers would see when they walked in. It didn’t quite match the decor, but the bluish green and pink hues blended in nicely with the colours I’d chosen.
“Of course. I want to see it every day,” I said. “It’s the first gift you ever gave me, after all.”
George chuckled. “Don’t worry, I still have another one for you.”
Before I could ask what he meant, Abigail called me over as she and Katerina wavered between getting a round of scones with tea and ordering what Alexander called ‘real food,’ like a roast beef sandwich.
I told him that carbs were in fact real food and informed him of the tons of butter that had gone into making the scones. George just laughed; I saw him leave to chat with my mother, then with Uncle Aaron. Hmm. I hadn’t realized he actually liked my uncle, who was a difficult man to deal with. He intimidated his fair share of business partners and family members alike.
So why would George be talking to him ?
The thought circled my mind until the grand opening was over. We closed and locked up and cleaned the bakery, and I was ready for a relaxing night in my pyjamas.
But just as I was making my way to my apartment, Abigail called me. “Georgia, do you want to come over to the penthouse for a girls’ night? We can watch movies and eat popcorn and paint each other’s nails. Well, maybe not in that order, but—”
I chuckled. My cousin’s exuberance, despite my long day, was just what I needed to get my spirits up.
“Sure. I’d love to.”
Even though I’d been hoping for a quiet night in, I redirected my plans and rerouted Pennington to take me to the Steele penthouse since it had its own screening room.
When I got there, though, after taking the elevator to the very top, I found the screening room mysteriously empty. “Abigail?”
Maybe she was late. I checked my phone for texts from her, but there was nothing.
Maybe she had meant we should meet at her place instead and I had misheard?
Frowning, I picked up the phone to call her again, but I ended the call mid-ring when I saw a note sitting on the entry table. Addressed to me.
Georgia ,
There is no movie. I’ve left you a clue on your favourite painting in the penthouse. I love you.
George
Intrigued, I tucked the fancy card in my pocket and made my way over to my favourite painting. I hoped George actually knew what my favourite painting in the penthouse was—an oil portrait of the Steele family and me and my mom—or else this would be a very awkward scavenger hunt.
But why did he have to make it a surprise? Couldn’t he just ask me to meet him at the penthouse for a date? Then again, I wasn’t exactly dressed for a fancy date. Maybe that was his goal?
I glanced down at my dark wash jeans and lace-edged black camisole. Not exactly fancy date attire.
I found a note as promised in the form of a blue sticky note beside the portrait’s frame and breathed a sigh. At least George knew my taste in art well enough to know that I would favour this painting.
The sticky note read: Turn around.
I spun around and nearly jumped out of my skin as a door creaked open.
The door to the guest room where George and I had kissed for the first time.
Smiling, I walked toward the door and yanked it open the rest of the way.
Inside, dozens of candles provided the only light source, illuminating the rose petals strewn on the floor and paintings on the walls that hadn’t been there before. In the midst of it all stood George.
“Georgia.” He smiled at me, and I felt that smile to my bones.
I dropped the sticky note and stalked toward him. “What is this?”
“Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for, but I’ll take whatever you want to give me.”
“George, what’s the occasion?”
“Oh, you know.” He rested a hand on the small of my back, his other hand cupping my nape. “I just wanted to surprise you.”
A shiver went down my spine, like a silk ribbon unfurling along the length of my back. “You didn’t succeed. I saw this coming from one-point-six-oh-nine kilometres away. ”
He chuckled. “Have I told you I love it when you use the metric system?”
“No, but that’s a weird thing to love. You should get that checked out.”
“Later. For now, I think I’d rather check you out.”
“That’s awful, George. The last time I heard you say something that cheesy was—” It dawned on me. The fake proposal he’d given me all those years ago. “Wait, are you proposing to me with a cheesy line? Is this why you were talking to my mom and Uncle Aaron?”
“Did you have to spoil my proposal, Georgia?” he laughed. “Love, I had a whole speech planned and a real ring picked out this time.”
“Do you want me to pretend I don’t know what’s going on?”
“No,” His tone softened, and he threaded his fingers through my hair, then gently tugged me toward him. “I’d rather you just be yourself. Because I love you.”
I gripped his shoulders and rose up on the slightest of tiptoes to press my lips against his. The faint rasp of his stubble against my cheek made my chest warm. He reciprocated with tender eagerness, his hands grasping onto my waist and pulling me flush against him. This, I realized, was what I’d wanted all day. Not the romantic setting, not the candles and roses and paintings—just George. As he was, with all his flaws and quirks and bad jokes. Him and his paint-stained fingers and messy hair and ripped jeans.
George. My George.
“I love you,” I whispered against his lips as we broke apart.
“I think you’re supposed to save the kiss for after I officially ask you to marry me,” he whispered. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”
I sighed and let him go. “Are you going to get around to asking me to marry you then? For real?”
He chuckled and dropped his hands from my back. “Very well. ”
With that, he sank onto one knee. The scene was so familiar yet so foreign all at once. We were such different people from those frightened half-strangers, half-lovers we’d been then. Each of us using the other to solve our problems instead of choosing to come together out of love.
“Georgia Charlize Philips,” he said slowly, pulling a ring box out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ve loved you ever since I saw you sitting in that art gallery, transfixed by my painting—”
“I was not transfixed,” I couldn’t help but protest.
“But when you opened your mouth to speak to me, I knew you were the one. And when you rode with me on my motorcycle and squeezed the life out of me—”
“You could breathe just fine!”
“I would really love to finish my planned speech, Georgia, before my knees give out,” he joked. “They click enough as it is.”
“Fine, fine.” I made a zipping motion across my lips and waved for him to continue.
“When you wrapped your arms around me on the motorcycle, I knew you were the only woman who would ever make me feel this deeply alive. Like I’d been living through a colourless dream, and once I met you, I could open my eyes and see reality.
“Georgia, you challenge me to be the best version of myself. You inspire me to create paintings I never thought I could before. When you smile at me, it’s like the sun breaking out on a cloudy day. Just being around you makes life feel like a grand adventure, and I don’t want to spend a single second of that adventure without you by my side. You know I was never one for religion, not until recently, but I believe God has brought us into each other’s lives time and time again for a reason, and I hope that reason was so I could make you my wife. We’ve had enough fake relationships and fake marriages, Georgia. Let’s have a real one. Will you marry me?”
Tears blurred my vision, spilling down my cheeks in hot rivulets. “Yes, George. I’ll marry you.”
When I saw the ring, I gasped. An emerald sparkled up at me, surrounded by little round gems that reminded me of Old Hollywood glamour. It was an unconventional stone for an engagement ring—but then again, we’d never been one to follow convention. “I love it.”
“Are you sure? Because I can return—”
I smacked him on the arm. “Shut up. I’m keeping it. I love it.”
He slid it onto my finger, and unlike the old one that I’d returned to him, this felt right at home.
“It’s a perfect fit,” I whispered as he stood and wrapped his arms around me.
“And here I thought that was just us, with the matching names and all that.”
“That’s going to be so confusing. I’m going to be Georgia Devereaux.”
“You could always keep your last name,” he suggested.
I arched an eyebrow at him. “How thoroughly modern of you.”
“Did you think I was a chest-thumping Neanderthal?”
“No, but your style usually gives off lumberjack vibes.”
He rolled his eyes. “You can keep your last name if you think it’ll be too confusing. As long as you’re my wife, I don’t care what you call yourself.”
“No. I want to be a Devereaux.” I slid my arms around his waist, leaning down slightly to rest my cheek against his chest. “Don’t you think a pastry chef would be more convincing with a French name? ”
“So you’re taking my name to advance your career? Diabolical.” His teasing grin paired with the languid way he stroked my hair suggested he wasn’t all that offended by my choice.
“You knew that about me already,” I retorted.
“All I knew about you was that I wanted to see you smile. To be the one to make you laugh. To hear your voice every day, for the rest of my life, even if you were insulting me or making fun of me.”
“You’re so cheesy.” I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face as I said the words, though.
“And you love it.”
“I’d love to be a Devereaux.” Georgia Devereaux. It felt right. I’d never known the man who gave me my last name, and though I bore no ill will against him, I wanted to have the last name of someone who loved me and knew me, since my mother would always be a Steele in our family’s eyes.
“That’s good, because I already hand-calligraphed our wedding invitations,” he deadpanned.
I laughed, looking up at him. As I did so, my eyes caught on the paintings around the room. “Where did you get all this artwork from anyway?”
“Georgia,” he said slowly, picking up one of the candles and using a tone that suggested I was a fool for not having figured it out earlier. "They’re all paintings I did of you .”
As flickering candlelight illuminated the painting closest to us, I saw it was of me in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a white apron tied messily over my clothes, hair up in a topknot and a smear of flour on my cheek. My breath hitched as I looked at different one: Abigail, Katerina, and I, on the couch watching a movie, but my face was closer and in focus while the other two were blurrier behind me. I was looking up at him and laughing. Another of me, wearing a green avocado mask with my hair up in a towel, bathrobe on. Even one of me on a motorcycle, all the way back when we’d first met. And finally, a tiny wallet-sized picture of me that was worn and crumpled in a way that suggested he’d carried it around in his actual wallet for ages before taking it out.
He’d painted me. Not at what I thought was my most beautiful or composed or perfect.
But me, just as I was, just as he saw me. Perfectly imperfect. Living my everyday, mundane life—a life he managed to infuse with beauty and wonder and whimsy.
“This is how I see you,” George murmured. “Yes, you’re beautiful, but you’re so much more than that. You don’t have to be perfect, and you never had to be. I love you for the beautiful creations you make in the kitchen, and the surprising things you say, and the sound of your laugh. For everything that you are, Georgia.”
More tears welled up in my eyes and I hastily blinked them away.
“Thank you.”
“No, Georgia. Thank you for letting me try to love you as you deserve to be loved.”
We stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, before he broke the silence. “I actually invited all your family over to the penthouse to celebrate, so we will have to leave this room at some point.”
As if on cue, Abigail’s voice rang through the room, slightly muffled by the door. “Do you think they’re done yet?”
I burst out laughing. “Let’s put them out of their misery, then.”
We walked out hand in hand toward my family, and our future.