Then the Lord God said, "It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him."

- Genesis 2:18

ITALY, ONE YEAR before The CEO & the Christian Girl

MICHELANGELO'S CHISEL MUST HAVE put current plastic surgeons to shame.

Each expression of pained anguish on the too-young face of Mary as she cradled her son, Jesus Christ, on her lap spoke to me, even with the less-than-proportional size of each figure and the implausible age of the mother, who appeared in her twenties herself despite having a son of thirty-three... Even now, staring at the Pieta as the graceful folds of marble rumpled in the Virgin Mary's clothes, creating delicate wrinkles that looked almost thin enough to be silk or linen rather than cold, hard marble, I could barely wrap my mind around the fact that it was merely a sculpture.

Yet it looked like a sculpture that seemed to be one breath away from coming to life.

Though I wasn't a particularly religious person--I'd been a model since I was 16, and the ensuing life of jet setting around the globe for photoshoots and runways didn't lend itself to regular attendance at a church or synagogue or anywhere else--I could still admire the beauty and sense of awe that permeated this place--that is, Italy's famous religious sites. The hushed worshipers huddling around lit candles; the murmured prayers in Latin or Italian or even English too soft for me to catch; the grand, vaulted cathedral ceilings all filled me with a deep sense of reverence that there had to be something, someone out there.

It would have been perfect if it wasn't for the overly tall stranger who had suddenly moved in front of me. He was surveying the statue with his hands in his pockets, whistling to himself as though he didn't care about anyone else who happened to be in his vicinity and wanted to gaze upon the Pieta a little longer. I huffed a sigh. This was one of my only days off while I was in Italy for a magazine cover, and he had to get in my way.

Deep breaths, Georgia.

I studied the man. He was likely American, from his attire, and probably a backpacker or another tourist from his scruffy clothing of jeans and a worn-out t-shirt that, I begrudgingly admitted, hugged his biceps and the muscles of his upper back like a second skin. When he took his hand out of his pocket to run it through his dark hair, I spied splotches of paint on his fingertips. Perhaps he was a painter, coming to admire the art? That made me feel a little better about my quick judgment of him.

I cleared my throat as I stepped forward, closer to the barrier set up between us and the sculpture. "Excuse me, sir, you're blocking my view."

Though I was taller than most women--five-eleven, to be exact--this man was taller, broader. And when he turned around, he had a gruff expression, enough to suck all the sunshine out of the room if his impressive shadow hadn't done it first.

"I hadn't realized the Vatican museum was your personal property." His scowl melted into a chuckle as he glanced down at me; a few inches separated us, and I estimated him to be over six feet tall. He had a rather muscular build for an artist if he was one. Perhaps he just painted houses for a living? His accent was tinted faintly with something else. Not American, then, as I had thought, but his English was fluent.

"You didn't see my name all over the place?" I let my mouth quirk into a grin as I sidled up next to him.

"No, but if I knew your name, maybe I would've realized you owned the building." He extended his hand, the same flashes of paint standing out against his skin in bright orange and turquoise. "I'm George Devereaux."

"Georgia Philips," I said. "What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"

"I could say the same for you," he said with that same short laugh. "You look like you should be on a Vogue cover."

My face fell without warning. I thought that after five years of modelling, I'd be a pro at controlling my facial expressions and muscles. Apparently not, if one too-tall, too-handsome stranger could make me drop my guard. After five years of modelling, the only thing I'd apparently gotten used to was being annoyed by men complimenting me on my looks, as though it was something I'd had any say in or any part in creating.

"Thanks," I said curtly.

"I didn't mean it like that..." He shook his head. "Sorry. I'm out of practice with talking to people. I've pretty much been a hermit for, well, a while now."

"Yeah?" Suddenly intrigued, I took a minute step closer. "Why's that?"

"Guess I just prefer to talk to my paintbrushes. They don't laugh at me." He picked a fleck of paint off his thumb.

"Are you any good at painting?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I can show you if you want," he offered. "Most of my paintings are back at my place, and... Oh, I swear, not everything that comes out of my mouth is meant to be a pick-up line. Just saying."

"I might believe that," I said. "Looking the way you do, you probably don't have to do a lot of picking up." I blushed, freezing on the spot. I had worked with countless jaw-droppingly gorgeous models, both female and male. I should've been used to beautiful people by now. But somehow, George Devereaux had me in a tizzy.

"Thanks," he said, in a tone much softer than my previous one. "How about we get coffee, instead? I heard the espresso's great here."

His eyes, a striking hazel that seemed to change into an entirely different shade when the light hit them, were imploring me. Pleading with me.

Just as I was considering saying yes, my cousin Abigail darted forward. I remembered vaguely losing her to a throng of tourists who had been gazing up at the painted ceilings, but I hadn't been too concerned about finding her. She did have shockingly red hair that had led to her being sometimes called carrot top at our New York prep school growing up (well, until her older brother, Alexander, had knocked out the teeth of more than one schoolyard bully).

"Georgia! We need to go, the tour guide is leaving without us." She tugged on my hand with her smaller one. Despite her petite stature, my cousin could be a force to be reckoned with.

George's hands were in his pockets again. I wondered how they looked holding a paintbrush. I wondered how they would look holding mine. "Maybe I'll see you again, Georgia Philips."

"Yeah. Maybe you will." I swallowed thickly. Part of me wanted to give him my number. Another part of me figured I would be better off not getting attached to vagabond artists whose every sentence sounded like they were at a bar trying to chat up women, but that part of my brain was being pushed to a corner and pummeled to a pulp. "It was nice meeting you, George."

He gave me a wave as I scurried off, hand-in-hand with Abigail, who didn't seem to notice my inner turmoil.