37. Chapter Thirty-Two Georgia Philips
Chapter Thirty-Two: Georgia Philips
A n Italian cathedral wedding where the bride wore motorcycle boots with a knee-length white dress and her uncle walked her down the aisle was far from conventional, but for me and George, convention was overrated.
As I clutched Uncle Aaron’s arm, my eyes blurred with tears. Through my tears, I saw Abigail mouth at me to stop crying so I wouldn’t ruin my makeup. Fortunately, I’d forgone my usual thick eyeliner today and applied waterproof mascara and berry lip gloss instead.
All the tabloids who’d wanted to report on the model-turned-chef’s wedding to a successful painter and art teacher would be sorely disappointed when they saw what I was wearing. I’d acquired my dress at a thrift store for fifty-seven dollars and I didn’t even have a tiara or a veil. Unlike Abigail and Katerina’s fancier weddings, this was simple.
I carried a bouquet of pink and yellow wildflowers, whose stems matched the groomsmen’s green ties and my engagement ring. The bridesmaids—Allie, Katerina, and Abigail—wore matching knee-length dresses in different shades of emerald and sage green, and held matching bouquets of pink and yellow calla lilies.
“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” Pastor Tony asked. I smiled at the sight of him in his suit and bolo tie. Gratitude overwhelmed me at the thought of how he’d flown all the way to Italy to officiate our wedding.
“I do,” Uncle Aaron said, stepping forward. He gave me a small, reassuring smile as I blinked back my tears.
George offered me his arm as Uncle Aaron went to take his seat next to his wife. We turned to face each other, and my tears dried as the gravity of the moment struck me.
George cleared his throat, pulling a folded piece of paper from his chest pocket. “Georgia, I vow to always love you, even on days when I don’t feel like it. I promise to take care of you when you’re sick, to hold your hair back when you throw up, and to let you see all of my new paintings before anyone else.
“I promise to dance with you in the kitchen, to lick the batter off your spatulas, and to always be your taste tester for new recipes. I vow to always go on motorcycle rides with you, to get gelato with you, and to always return to Italy with you whenever we feel like it.” He squeezed my hands. “Most importantly, I vow to never stop falling for you, and to never stop being inspired by you, my muse.”
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I composed myself. “George, I promise to never stop annoying you with my snarky comments. I promise to love you even when things aren’t perfect, to hold you when you’ve had a long day, and to make up after we fight. I promise to be your model for as many paintings as you want. And I promise that no matter how much time passes, I’ll never take you for granted, and we’ll always make our way back here. To where we first fell in love. ”
He gave me a look that told me he knew I wasn’t just talking about Italy or even the art museum where we’d met. I meant the adventurous, carefree joie de vivre we’d been filled with so many years ago—the same spirit of adventure and romance that I prayed would suffuse our lives for years to come.
We exchanged rings with the help of three-year-old Mattias Steele, who carefully brought us the rings on a velvet cushion as he was guided by his grandmother, my Aunt Ava.
“Repeat after me,” Pastor Tony instructed.
“With this ring, I, George Devereaux, wed you, Georgia Philips,” George repeated, and he slid the wedding band onto my finger.
Pastor Tony instructed me to do the same.
“With this ring, I, Georgia Philips, wed you, George Devereaux.”
“You may now kiss the bride.”
George set a hand on the small of my back, his fingers splaying across my waist as he tugged me toward him. In my motorcycle boots, there was no need for me to rise onto my toes; we were almost perfectly aligned with one another. I was grateful I had chosen not to wear a veil as George rested his fingers under my chin, tipping my head back the slightest degree so my lips reached his.
This kiss was passionate and gentle all at once. His hand on my back pulled me firmly against him, but his lips softly teased mine with the promise of more. I carded my fingers through his gelled hair, undoing the style until it was as messy as it usually was. It could have lasted hours; it could have lasted seconds for all I knew. Camera flashes and the voices of the guests all faded to the background, leaving me alone with my husband. When we broke apart, a lipstick smudge stood out on his chin, and I wiped it off with my thumb, grinning.
“I present to you for the first time, Mr. George and Mrs. Georgia Devereaux!” Pastor Tony declared .
Clapping and cheering broke out as we made our way back down the aisle hand-in-hand, their applause surrounding us like a warm hug. I waved and smiled at our family and friends, laughing as I saw Matty jumping up and down in the pile of flower petals that the flower girl—one of George’s art students—had dumped on the floor.
“How does it feel to be Georgia Devereaux?” George whispered as we leaned over the table to sign the paperwork that would legally bind us as husband and wife.
“Pretty good, but I feel like I should have practiced spelling my new last name at least a couple of times before we did this whole wedding thing,” I joked as I signed the form.
Katerina stepped up next, along with Alexander to sign the form to witness our wedding.
“Come on,” I said, tugging on George’s sleeve when we had finished signing. “Let’s get back to our adoring public.”
He rolled his eyes but a ghost of a smile flickered over his face. “Yes, my love.”
***
After the wedding ceremony, we spent an hour taking pictures before we headed to the reception venue. I would have liked to celebrate our wedding outside the turtle fountain where we’d had our first date. However, George had looked into it and it was apparently forbidden for foreigners to hold large gatherings in that courtyard. So, we had settled for a reception in one of the restaurants overlooking the fountain instead.
The bridal party were all travelling in one car, the groomsmen in another. All the guests had found their own transportation to the reception. Though we didn’t have many guests to begin with—mostly family friends who Uncle Aaron had invited, or friends of my mom, since the Steeles were footing the bill for the wedding.
“How does it feel to be married?” Abigail asked me, as she exited the limo behind me.
“Aren’t you already married? I feel like I should be asking you what marriage is like,“ I said, grateful I was wearing my boots rather than stiletto heels for traversing the cobblestone paths.
“I meant newly married. To George.“ Abigail gave me a good-natured shake of her head.
My cheeks hurt from smiling, both for the pictures and out of uncontrollable joy. “It feels… reassuring. Like I have someone who will be in my corner no matter what. I mean, I know I’ll always have you guys, but I’ve always felt like an outsider to the Steele siblings. Now I finally have a family of my own.”
“Oh, Georgia.” Despite being much shorter than me, Abigail crushed me in a hug. “I love you. I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“It’s okay. I always wanted siblings growing up. But you guys were a pretty good substitute.”
“Even Alex? What about the time he put frogs in your ballet slippers?”
“Okay, fine, not Alex. Just you, then.”
She squeezed my hand again before dropping it. “That’s what I thought.”
I laughed, and she entered the reception venue ahead of me, joining her husband, who had just exited the groomsmen’s limo.
Once, I spied George, we linked arms and walked in together, not without casting a longing look at the fountain outside.
As we entered the reception venue, guests were filing into their assigned seats. George grabbed refreshments while I joined Katerina at the wedding party’s table. She was watching Alexander try to feed olive oil-soaked bread to a picky toddler—Mattias.
“I never thought I would see my cousin become a dad, let alone such a good one,” I told her. “You’ve really done wonders on him. Well, you, and God.”
Katerina’s brows arched in surprise. “You know, Georgia, you’ve come a long way since we first talked about God.”
“Have I?” I studied the restaurant around us: candles flickered on the tables, which were covered by white tablecloths. The centrepiece at each table was a mini sculpture made of marble, shaped like our embracing silhouettes. George had commissioned them from a local artisan. Each guest’s wedding favour was a cookie in the shape of a small turtle, a nod to the fountain outside.
“Do you remember the conversation we first had in the hallway next to the portrait of Allie? You told me you’d never seen Alexander look at anyone the way he did at me. And I gave you my whole spiel on God and what I believed about marriage.”
“I’ll always remember your spiel.” It was true; her speech about God had left an indelible impression on me. “You seemed so confident in a way that was unlike anyone I knew. It wasn’t the kind of arrogance I was used to or vapid self-centredness. Instead, you were—no, you are—grounded in something bigger than yourself.”
The Lord.
“Thanks, Georgia.” Katerina smiled at me, and her eyes were glassy with tears. “What I’m trying to say is, you no longer seem as skeptical about God as you were then.”
“Thank you, Kat.” Her words meant a lot to me, because I knew she didn’t toss them around idly .
The wedding planner announced that it was time for everyone to sit down for dinner, so the last of the guests and the wedding party took their seats.
Each table took turns getting up to pile their plates with pasta, lasagna, meatballs, and heaping spoonfuls of parmesan cheese. I made sure to save room for dessert, knowing the gelato bar would be to die for. I’d already spotted a dazzling array of flavours there, from hazelnut to tiramisu to lemon.
Pastor Tony said a blessing over the food before we dug in, and as I watched the cheerful faces of my friends and family chatting away, I was certain I’d never felt more content. I’d spent so much of my life striving for something—whether it was thinness or modelling success or to feel like I belonged in my family—that I rarely got to sit down and enjoy what I had.
And with the bakery taking off in the past year, alongside wedding planning, I’d barely had time to breathe.
“A kiss for your thoughts?” George asked, tapping me on the shoulder in between bites of pasta. I was taking my time, savouring all the flavours of the marinara and alfredo sauces of the tagliatelle and fusilli I had on my plate.
“Are you sure you don’t mean a penny?”
“No, I mean a kiss,” he said with a smirk.
“I thought we were supposed to let our guests tell us when to kiss,” I said, though I couldn’t deny that I wanted to feel his lips against mine again.
As if on cue, people began clinking their teaspoons against their water glasses. I caught Jamie’s eye in the crowd and she winked at me; I’d called her shortly after George had proposed, and we’d remained close friends since the Italy trip .
“Well, if you insist.” George curved his hand around my nape and tugged me toward him so we were kissing again. This kiss felt like coming home.
I no longer had to be an outsider, watching from the sidelines, hoping to belong. George Devereaux was my home now.