The Painter & the Pretty Girl

c h a p t e r f i v e : georgia

Likewise, husbands, live with your wives in an understanding way, showing honor to the woman as the weaker vessel, since they are heirs with you of the grace of life, so that your prayers may not be hindered.

- 1 Peter 3:7

I CHANGED MY MIND. Having a fake fiance was a hassle, especially when said fake fiance showed up to your photoshoot on your motorcycle, revved the engine, then parked, got off, and shook out his hair from beneath his helmet like he was a male model in a D&G ad.

Especially when all the girls around you who you thought you were friends with–or at least casual acquaintances with–immediately squealed, fanned themselves, and began gossipping about the mysterious guy who had just parked outside. This was even though they saw attractive men on a daily basis and sometimes even posed with them in romantic positions for magazine spreads or clothing ads. Seriously. The sight of George Devereaux simply drove them all mad.

Which was absurd. I mean, sure the man was good looking. He even looked good in glasses, for Pete's sake. It gave him a weird, nerdy hot look. But they didn't know him. Not like I did. All they were getting hyped up about was his hair or his eyes or the symmetry of his facial features, which was exactly what we had been chosen for in our jobs. It was insane.

"Georgia! Do you know that guy? He's walking over here," Leana whispered to me.

I was in the middle of taking off my makeup, preferring to let my skin breathe between the heavy foundation and concealer that I had to wear on camera, not that it mattered since we were all airbrushed to death anyways. "What guy?"

"Seriously? Motorcycle guy?" Jaden asked me, her hands on her hips. She looked at me like I was blind or crazy. Possibly both. "The one who's wearing a leather jacket and walking toward us right now?"

They'd all spotted him the moment he drove into the parking lot, which conveniently faced the window of the dressing room. Now, he was walking down the hall and into our dressing room, which was large enough to encompass half a football stadium or maybe a concert hall. We were clustered over at one end with racks of clothes, mirrors, and vanity tables.

"Never seen him in my life." Some strange sensation spread through my chest at the sight of them fawning over him. It couldn't be jealousy. I'd told him last night that the only reason I was helping him by fake marrying him was because of his sister, Katerina, who was my friend. That was true. Wasn't it?

"Well, he seems to know you," Jaden said with a giggle.

George walked over to us, motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm, having had the audacity to take my Ducati for a spin. "Hello, ladies."

Leana looked at him like he was the last Kate Spade purse at a sample sale. "Hi."

"I'm looking for a girl." Was his voice always that deep, or was it merely because I was determinedly turning my back to him as I took out my false lashes?

"Which girl?" Jaden asked coquettishly. "There's a lot of girls around here, if you haven't noticed."

"Blonde, five-eleven, blue eyes... Answers to Philips, or Georgia, or Charlize, sometimes..."

The back of my neck heated. I finished removing the eyelash glue and took out my heavy earrings, giving my poor earlobes some relief. I would not turn around.

"Georgia?" Leana twirled her hair around her finger. "I think I know her."

I could see the three of them in the mirror, George's amused expression meeting my eye in the glass, and I had no idea why my heart was speeding up. Stop that, right now, heart! We are approaching a yellow light. With speed traps. And cameras. Stop speeding.