Along the edges are artists who have set up small easels. One mixes paint on her palette while another leans close to his canvas, sketching fast lines. There are a few people watching over their shoulders as coins clink into a container near their feet.
Closer to the centre of the square, a musician plays while a small crowd watches—some swaying, others recording on their phones.
Pigeons scatter when a group of children runs through them and I take another step forward, scanning from one detail to the next.
“Where are we?” I ask, my eyes fixed on everything unfolding around us. This square feels so alive.
“This is the Piazza della Signoria,” he says, looking around with an easy fondness. “I used to come here to paint for money.”
“Here?” I turn to face him. “This is where it became a career? Wait—you’re from Florence, not Rome?”
He laughs, nodding. “I moved to Rome a few years ago, but yes.” He points to where the artists stand. “That exact spot is where I would set up.”
“Wow.” I try to picture what it must have been like being a new artist, surrounded by strangers and painting while people watched every detail over your shoulder. “What did you paint?”
We begin slowly walking, blending into the flow of the busy square. “In the beginning? Buildings, and basic architecture.”He smiles to himself. “I probably have dozens of canvases of this place alone.” He glances around. “Eventually I started noticing the people. I’d pick someone who stood out and paint them instead.”
“And you sold those?”
“I usually gave them to whoever I painted,” he says. “Unless I was especially proud of one. Then I’d keep it for my portfolio.”
I look back toward the artists working. “Have you thought about coming back to see if it reignites your inspiration?”
His grin fades, just slightly. “I have. Many times.” He watches them for a moment. “I always leave with blank canvases.”
My chest tightens at the disappointment in his voice, so I nudge him lightly. “No one in the crowd standing out to you? No pretty girls?” I tease.
That earns me a small smile.
“Actually,” he looks down at me. “There is a pretty girl here who stands out.”
Warmth creeps into my cheeks, but I hold his gaze. “Oh?”
He grins, teeth showing. “I’ve wanted to paint you from the moment I first saw you.”
“Is that so?” I glance away, pretending to focus on a violinist nearby who’s begun swaying as he plays.
“Giovanna mentioned you don’t speak Italian,” Paolo says, nervousness creeping into his voice. “How would you feel about lessons while I paint you?”
I laugh, looking back at him. “Are you trying to negotiate?”
He laughs too. “I’m trying to make it mutually beneficial.” His eyes search my face. “We could start next week. At my studio.”
I narrow my eyes playfully. “Would I have to model naked?”
He bursts out laughing, startling an elderly couple passing by. After flashing them an apologetic smile, he turns back to me.
“Only if you want to.”
He offers his hand and I take it, giving it a small shake.
“Alright,” I say. “Italian lessons in exchange for being your muse.”
“Deal.”
FOURTEEN
GABRIEL | FLORENCE
