The Art of Love: Boys of Bragg, #2

By Randa Knight

Cat

I've been the black sheep of the family my entire life, so I'm looking forward to this fresh start. My job and new friends are great and I'm finding happiness. Then I met Brax--the gorgeous soldier who works with my overprotective brother. Brax is gorgeous with muscles in all the right places, but he's also sweet, caring, and loves art. Oh, and he's completely off-limits, thanks to my brother.  Will he chase Brax away like he's done my entire life?

 

Brax

To protect and serve: it's all I've ever wanted to do. Being a model soldier has been my life's dream. But then I met Cat, the little pixie artist who stole my heart. Now, all I want to do is be with her, but there's just one problem--her brother is my first sergeant. Now I'll have to choose between being the perfect soldier for my unit… or being her perfect partner

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randa Knight
• Release date: May 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201655556

Book preview

Text, letter Description automatically generated

STRONZA! MY FATHER IS BEING especially douchie. Is that a word? I don’t care. No, an asshole. Calling home is never pleasant. Just once, can’t he say something positive, or better yet, not belittle me and my choices? The only way to make myself feel better after his tongue-lashing is to create something on my easel. I feel the familiar itch to hold a paintbrush or pencil. Someday I’m going to paint this whimsical area where Ephemera, the cute art store I work at, is located.

Walking into Ephemera at six a.m. is a bit different than my previous days. Why? Well, for starters, it’s six a.m. I’m not one of those early bird types. And I’m a hot mess today. Ok, I am most days, but today... well, it’s worse. Sadly, today I can’t adore the little shops like the tiny bakery with pastel yellow, pink, and green dots against the white backsplash bragging about the best muffins in Fayetteville. Or smile at the little old lady sweeping the yellow ochre entryway of the quaint antique store with a hideous olive-green awning and the creepy faded dolls sitting in the display window.

Instead, the streetlights illuminate the harsh shadows since the sun has yet to peak. I expected the store to be dark and silent, but there’s country music blaring from Ivy’s studio as she’s hunched over thin strips of copper, twisting them around each other. Every few seconds, she hits the copper to flatten it out, adding texture and depth to the metal. Once she has the pieces intertwined, she bends all the pieces in an arc. For a minute, I think she’s making a circle, but I realize she didn’t add enough of a bend for a circle. She continues the same pattern for three more copper pieces.

Ya stand there much longer and it will be creepy, Ivy says while dragging hoses from the welder over. She has four different welders and I’m pretty sure each one is different, but I have no idea how they differ. I would ask why you’re here so early, but I bet it’s for the same reason I am. I didn’t expect to see my new boss in the store this early. The silence and darkness I craved have been invaded by blaring country music and sparks shooting off the welders. Love what you’re doing so far. You going to show me once it’s done?

She shrugs as if what she’s doing doesn’t matter. Sure, once you tell me if you jetted away from po-dunk Pennsylvania to escape an arranged marriage to an ally mafia family but—

I stop Ivy before she can finish her on-going theories of why I suddenly moved here, which all are based on the steamy romance novels she reads.

Still on a mafia kick, I see.

I love me a good alpha. She smiles and taps the metal a few more times.

You are relentless. Oh, I put the contract on your desk yesterday, and why did you give me keys so early? The contract says I can only use the studio space during store hours until I’ve been here for six months.

She lights the end of her welder. I need another opener and... gut feeling. Always follow your gut. She turns, eclipsing the welder, and I realize she has welding glasses on.

In the short time I’ve worked here, I’ve noticed Ivy creates pieces for home décor and jewelry. Looks like a football. I’m guessing that’s not going to be on the sales floor. I prod a bit since she doesn’t share much about herself. Yet she expects me to spill my entire life story.

Wow. You’re fantastic with shapes. You should be an artist, she quips as she continues welding a silver metal into the copper. I learned the hard way that a silver metal doesn’t mean it’s actual silver. Ivy has no less than nine silver-colored metals she works with.

For your son?

Her finger moves from the button controlling the flame and extinguishes the flame. She responds, Yes. The small handheld welder hums and pops while Ivy welds the two copper pieces together.

I have a feeling if I prod further, she’ll clam up. You should bring him by more often.

Part of me wants to keep chatting, but the unfinished canvas in the studio is calling me. I feel the itch to paint, so see ya in a few.

On my way, I gather all my supplies—medium white canvas, acrylic paints, pencils, seven different brushes—and situate my pill speaker five feet away with my girl power playlist.

I shake my hands to release the small amount of adrenaline surging through my veins. My heart races envisioning cerulean eyes lovingly gazing at his girl, his life, his entire world. How the world didn’t exist before seeing those delicate bourbon-colored eyes. My hands move without thought. The outline of his body shifts toward hers. Her slender finger intertwines with his. Wait, no. His arm wraps around her. Maybe he is holding her hand, after all... hmm. Around her. Erase the hands. My hand moves faster than my mind can keep up with.

Grabbing the paints while my brain still debates the merits of the hands versus arm around her, I begin to formulate my color palette in a vain attempt to slow my mind. But it’s pointless. My hands will decide which direction the painting will go. I need to keep the images flashing through my mind of how much he loves her. The admiration in his irises. His cerulean eyes—they will be the focal point of the whole piece. Getting all that just right will be the challenge. It will take five different shades of blue to perfect his eye color. Luckily, I know that shade well since they are so similar to my own. A content smile. He needs to show the world how blissfully happy he is.

My hand becomes a precision machine with each brushstroke. Her lips are a soft pink to show how precious she is to him. The waves from the beach in the background—which I almost forgot to add.

I shake my head at my own stupidity. The background should’ve been first. I switch brushes to remedy that. I’ll have to touch up his jet-black hair and her cinnamon hair blowing in the wind. Switch to the fan brush for the waves, then back to the flat, making sure I don’t grab the dry flat since I’ll need that to blend colors on the canvas.

Hey! Hey Cat! Time for a break, Ivy yells from less than five feet away. Then she pauses. This... this is why I hired you. That’s breathtaking. You’re only halfway, I can only imagine how magnificent it will be when you’re finished. Are you submitting it? Come, I ordered food. I put my brushes down and Ivy leads me to the sink.

I shake my head. No. I’m hoping it will be my wedding gift to my brother.

After we clean up, we head to her office. My muscles stiffen with each step and my back is like a board. The adrenaline still zips through my veins, but Ivy’s more controlled with her process than I am. I would’ve kept going until I passed out from exhaustion or until the piece was complete.

Ivy tosses a white paper bag at me as I sit on the sofa behind her desk. I’ll never admit this to Ivy, but I love having lunch with her. Yes, she cracks me up, but her office has a calming effect even though you can see the chaos on the sales floor through the large window that extends the length of her office and almost half the sales floor wall. It’s also how she decorates her office, like how the leather sofa is situated between the desk facing the window and the coffee table and the paintings of the ocean and pieces of pottery the other artists have created just for her. Her personal showpieces. The Dragon’s Breath and rose incense, which don’t always mix but are uniquely Ivy.

It’s from Motzie’s—the deli two blocks over. I told you an hour ago I was ordering food. Did you hear me at all?

I completely zoned out. I only have music to get me started. Even that fades away, besides the piece and sometimes the subject. I shrug, taking a bite from the turkey and Swiss on sourdough.

Oh. I usually set a timer so I know when to open the store or pick Mase up. Actually, I’ve always set timers, come to think of it. She takes a large bite of her Rueben.

Tell me about Mase. I crack open the small paper bag with homemade chips.

Ivy’s eyes light up and she wakes up her laptop to show me photos of this adorable little boy who looks about six years old. The cloudless blue sky in the background really makes his seafoam eyes stand out against his sandy-brown hair. Oh, and those dimples. Ivy’s auburn hair and creamy complexion are a complete contrast to Mase’s slight olive complexion.

Slow down. That last picture didn’t have just you and Mase. Who’s the stud? I tease, wondering if that’s her brother or the best friend she told me about the other day.

She clears her throat before answering. Grant. He’s been around since I was six and Mase completely idolizes him. He can do no wrong in Little Bear’s eyes. That’s the nickname my brother and Grant gave him shortly after he was born. Ivy picks at the edge of her sandwich, flicking the excess bread away from the meat. I think she’s nervous, but I don’t know her well enough yet since I’ve worked here for less than a month.

So Grant... is important to you too, then? I’m fishing. I know it, she knows it.

She releases a deep sigh. Yeah, I suppose so. He’s been just as much of a rock for me as Jax.

Yeah, I say, extending the word and trying to figure out whether she’s lying to me or herself.

Anyway, you still haven’t spilled about why you ran away from home. I’m going to get it out of you. Talk, she says matter-of-factly.

An intrusive ding alerts me to an incoming video call from Brody. I silence my phone and shoot a quick text back.

Me: Busy, will call later.

I toss my phone back to the coffee table separating us. I knew I should’ve put my phone in my pocket instead of the table when we came in here.

So he looked cute. I would ask if that’s your ex, but you were too chill and brushed him off pretty easily. I’m guessing he’s buried in the friendzone. Who is he? Ivy almost demands, popping a chip in her mouth.

Fine. It was Brody, my brother’s Army buddy. We chat off and on. Before you ask, no, I have zero interest in him even though he is hot. Brody’s a player. I-I... that’s not appealing to me, I explain.

Nice to look at but nothing more, huh? Ivy pauses. Not something I expected from you. She tosses the rest of her sandwich on the coffee table.

What do you mean? I attempt to read her, hoping to figure out where she’s going with this.

You use him. She removes the screw cap and takes a big gulp of her lemonade.

My mouth falls open. What?! I don’t use him. We chat. How is that using him?

He’s a stud muffin, hottie-toddie, man-candy—

I get it. Yes, he’s good-looking and constantly gives me compliments, but I can’t get over how many women he’s dated. I mean, every time we chat, there’s a new girl. Don’t get me wrong, I love the compliments. I shake my head, unable to describe my relationship with Brody.

You use him for compliments and his looks. Good to know that you’re not as perfect as you appear to be. I had a feeling it was a ruse. Ok, hopeful since I announced we’re going to be besties last week, Ivy says, then eats another chip.

I don’t use him. We’re friends. I give him advice on how not to be a douche and he listens to me complain.

He’s definitely not why you ran away. So no to running from an abusive cop boyfriend? Ivy questions, attempting to change the subject to her reasons why I left my childhood home on a whim.

No to the cop boyfriend. I’ll tell you. Just not today. I’m finally in a good mood after a rough start and want to keep it that way. I’m guessing you’re leaving at two-thirty, right? I push negative thoughts and comments from my father’s early morning phone call—aka reprimand—to the back corner of my mind so I can continue to ride my artistic high. I need to keep that so I don’t mess up the painting for my brother.

Gotta pick Little Bear up from school. She smiles and stares at the picture of her, Masen, and Grant.

I missed before how Grant holds both Masen and Ivy like the two mean the world to him. His fingers weave between Ivy’s shirt, pulling her closer to him. He grips Masen’s shoulder, keeping the rambunctious little boy in place. If I didn’t know any better, I would think this was a family picture. I wonder if Masen is biologically Grant’s, though they don’t have any similarities.

I take a few more bites of my sandwich while studying the picture since Ivy has yet to change the screen. She stopped eating but is still staring at it.

Ladies. A blond-haired man that I’m presuming is her brother from the pictures earlier walks in. My brother Mike wears the exact same shorts each morning and to workout with his friends and his soldiers. I was close by and thought I’d let you know that tomorrow night, we leave.

Thanks.

He’s already at the house and will probably take Mase to Beatz for... he trails off and watches Ivy’s reaction.

Ivy jumps in, realizing I have no idea what they’re discussing. Every time these guys have a mission, Grant takes Mase out for his favorite ice cream at Beatz. Oh, and this is my brother, Jax.

Nice to meet you. I’m presuming you’re in the Army like my brother and his friends, right?

The corner of his mouth turns up as he nods his confirmation.

How long will you guys be gone? You know, so I know how long I have to complete the piece I’m making. Ivy is rushing and talking with her hands. She must be nervous about this mission.

Three weeks. I’m outta here. Have a nice day. See ya tonight. He disappears just as quietly as he entered.

Oh, Ivy. Grant is so-o-o much more than your brother’s best friend. Hell, he’s definitely more than your childhood friend. Gonna talk about that? I question, taking another bite of my sandwich. I’m not sure how true my statement is. It’s more of a gut feeling from how Ivy talks about Grant and the way she says his name—a revered whisper. Maybe it’s all my imagination. I wish I was more pushy like my brother’s fiancée Dee.

Depends. I’ll tell you about Grant when you tell me why you ran away from home. She tosses the remainder of her sandwich and heads back to her studio. A few seconds pass before Patsy Cline blasts and the distinct ting of metal hitting metal emanates from Ivy’s studio. I finish my sandwich and return to my studio too. I barely notice when Ivy leaves thirty minutes later. I take that moment to stretch my legs and hang my painting smock up before leaving the studio to refill my water bottle at the water cooler by Ivy’s office.

Excuse me, miss, can you help me? the adorable silver-haired woman asks.

Placing my refilled bottled behind the counter, I ask, How can I help you? She tells me all about her current craft project, a special blanket she’s making for her first grandchild. She needs a particular hook size for the unique yarn blend, and I help her find it. I hope her daughter appreciates all the effort her momma is making for that grandbaby.

As I round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks. He’s wearing a tight gray dry-fit shirt that hugs the curvature of his ripped muscles and jeans that are molded to his body. Short sandy-brown hair cut very similarly to my brother’s, but what really catches my attention is the delicate way he’s handling pencils—the most precious instrument in the entire world. He twirls a blue label charcoal pencil between his agile fingers, then replaces it back in the correct point size and brand bin before picking up another and repeating the same motion.

I bounce over to the pencil display where Mr. Sexy Muscles is. Can I help you? I ask with my best customer service voice.

A small smile appears at the corner of his mouth as his eyes slowly move from my asymmetrical bob with blue tips down my blue tank top and jean shorts with a splotch of blue on my hip. And after his incredibly slow perusal, I feel good about myself. Really good.

What’s the difference between monolith pencils and graphite? Mr. Sexy Muscles asks, making eye contact with me. My tummy flutters. Yes tummy, I know my inner self sounds like a teenage girl... that’s how I feel right now. Well, maybe not with the heat in his eyes.

I whisper as if what I’m about to say is a secret. I just want to be a little closer to him. Well... it depends on who you ask. A salesperson will say they’re the same. But to an artist, there is a vast difference unless it’s monolith graphite. Monolith just means there’s a thin layer of lacquer on the graphite or watercolor pigment. All of these are various forms of graphite and monolith pencils. I point to the display, inching closer to him, our arms separated just by a whiff of air. I can feel the heat radiating off him. I tuck my hair behind the ear and thank God he doesn’t know me well enough to know what that indicates. It depends on what you’re sketching and the type of shading you’re doing on which pencils you need. Though you don’t look like the type of guy who sketches—no offense. I scrunch my nose up, a nervous twitch I have. I also do it when I’m deep in concentration, or so I’ve been told.

Oh, that face from the side. He appears to have a perfectly square face, much like Chris Hemsworth, but his chin is just a hair off-centered with high cheekbones. Much sexier than Hemsworth.

He laughs. I get that a lot, but my little sister is, and she’s always asking for more. I sent some to her a while back, and ever since that charcoal pencil set, she sketches up a storm. I try to buy different kinds of pencils for her. She... He trails off, which is adorable and makes me curious about this man who rambles on about his sister. I bite my lip to prevent from laughing at how cute he’s being. Is he blushing?

She what? I smirk at him, hoping he’ll flirt back.

I have no idea what I was going to say. I’m sorry for dumping all that on you. I’m going to find Ivy, she knows... He begins to turn, but I touch his bicep with a tattoo peeking from under his shirt. He intrigues me. Plus, I also love every opportunity to talk about art, whether it’s mine or someone else’s.

Tell me more about her art. So, she only sketches or does she use other forms? I prefer either the blue Staedtler or the brown Arteza for mine. But sometimes I’ll change it up and use different charcoals for shading. It depends on my feelings and the subject. I grab a few that are misplaced and set them in their proper bin. Now if you want to expose her to new techniques, try the aqua monolith. If I sketch in color, I use this brand. I move my hand from his forearm. A satisfying smile crosses my face knowing I helped him pick something for his sister. I hope she enjoys those pencils. I spent an entire month playing with my first aqua kit.

She focuses on everyday things in her life. There’s a lot of drawings of her classroom, our neighborhood, the backyard... I’m sure you don’t want to hear about my teenage sister. He grants me a small smile.

I give him one in return. Yes and no. I love sharing stories and experiences about art with other people. Buuut, I stepped out of my studio for some water and I hear my canvas calling me.

His eyes quickly scan up and down. I should let you get back to work then. He grabs the aqua monolith kit and starts down the aisle. But then he abruptly stops and that cute smile returns, completely melting my heart. I’m Brax.

I bite my lip and respond, Cat.

Guess I’ll see ya around, Cat. He winks before heading to the register.

A picture containing outdoor object, parachute Description automatically generated

"BRAX, I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY THEY make me go," my little sister whines during our weekly Saturday afternoon Skype call.

Ava, I sigh at my laptop and stare at my baby sister. It never ceases to amaze me how much her eyes mirror mine. They’re trying to get you to step out of your comfort zone a bit.

I hate people, crowds, and loud noises, and there are so many smells. I can’t deal. But our parentals insist I go with them to these places. She rolls her eyes at me after checking each item off with her fingers.

I chuckle. Sorry, kiddo. It’s partly my fault. They tend to take you to places I used to love since your occupational therapist told them you need to socialize more. They’re trying. Cut them some slack. How was therapy yesterday?

She tucks her fist under her chin and deadpans, Which one?

I would argue with her and tell her she’s exaggerating, but she’s not. She has a speech therapist, occupational therapist, behavioral therapist, cognitive therapist, plus a trainer to continue improving her gross motor skills even though she really doesn’t need the last one anymore. But she likes her trainer so she continues going to her. The older she gets, the less often she needs each therapist, but she has some type of therapy session three days a week.

Oh, we’ve picked up sarcasm. I said yesterday. That means... what, your trainer and occupational therapist? I question, hoping I remember her daily routine correctly.

Ava begins sketching without looking up and responds with zero emotion, No trainers anymore. OT was ok. Her left eye twitches, a small indicator of her frustration.

For years, she refused to talk. Until I was doing an art project that frustrated me. I left it on the kitchen table to go play basketball and Ava finished it for me. She told me everything she did. It was the first time I ever held a complete conversation with her. She struggled to tell me, like she was scared or uncertain of my reaction, but she did it.

Ava has issues reading people and picking up on social cues. That probably made sweet little Ava even more frightened. Oh, and add on the fact that she was only seven when she completed my high school art project. The only time she would talk was during or after completing an art project, so my parents and I enrolled in art classes with Ava to bond with her and be able to hold a conversation with her. I think one of her many therapists specializes in art therapy. Art is the way she speaks to the world. I do everything possible to continue to encourage that.

Zelda quit. She rubs the paper with her fingertip.

Isn’t Zelda the one who does art with you? I study her facial expressions, looking for clues on her emotional state. She doesn’t outwardly show her emotions, but small things appear—an eye twitch, rapid eye movement, the corner of her mouth lifts. Wait, Mom said something about how they changed all your therapies to be art-focused.

Yelp, she deadpans. The eye twitch reappears. If she’s hiding it, it’s because she’s extremely upset, doesn’t want you to know. She’s learning to school her features, which I hate.

You liked Zelda? Or is it because it’s a change? I question, knowing either could be why she’s upset.

Ugh, I don’t want to talk about this. What cool stuff are you doing at work? Her pencil continues to skid across her sketchpad, which tells me Zelda was important to her.

Same ole thing. Just a paper pusher. I don’t do anything cool like some of the other guys in the unit. I don’t build stuff or blow anything up. I follow the first sergeant around and make sure he can do his job.

You’re his bitch. She doesn’t even look up at the screen. She’s honest to a fault, which can be hurtful to some people.

AVA GRACE! I am not anyone’s bitch. How do you know what a bitch is? I mean that definition of it. I crack up laughing while Ava smirks. I miss you, kiddo.

I never spent much time with her as a kid since our parents were always shuttling her to and from numerous appointments. I was eight when she was born, so when Ava was diagnosed, I could pretty much take care of myself. I wasn’t happy about it—still not. But Ava needed them more than me. I try to be the best brother I can be.

Yeah, yeah, I miss you too, even if you’re someone’s bitch. Bethany, a girl in my math class, explained the different definitions of bitch. By the way, Mom does not like to be called a bitch like how Bethany calls her friends a bitch. She goes on, explaining more about Bethany and how she’s trying to make friends with more girls.

I’m not sure if Bethany is a good person to befriend, especially if she’s teaching you about the various definitions of bitch. What’s next? Hittin’ some leaf? I bust out laughing at my own joke.

Ava stops sketching and points her pencil at the screen. Hitting? Why would I hit a leaf? What did the leaf do to deserve being hit? Can you even hit a leaf? I’m sure it’s possible but... why?

Never mind, it was a bad joke. Forget I said anything. I know better than to use sarcasm since Ava doesn’t pick it up. Or she didn’t before. Although she did make the bitch joke and understands the slang uses of it. She’s starting to pick up a few things, and I’m not sure how comfortable I am with that. Why haven’t I noticed these things before?

Oh, you were being figurative. No, that’s not right. Sarcastic? She twists her mouth like she tasted something bad.

Yes, I confirm.

I got another package from you yesterday. Thanks for the oil pastels. I haven’t used either of those before. I’m running low on charcoal pencils. I use those a lot, especially at school.

And like that, my comment is completely forgotten.

Sure, I bought you some pencils, but it’s an aqua monolith. I expect pictures of what you make. Ava focuses back on the sketch. Ava!

She looks up. Sorry. Well log into my Insta and you would see my art. I haven’t tried those types of pencils before.

Ouch. I’m not big on social media. I would—

Rather be out doing all adventurous and spontaneous stuff. The right corner of her mouth curves downward, indicating her displeasure. She would loathe my buddies’ lives; they’re more spontaneous than me. Your life is weird. She hangs up. Well, at least she almost said bye this time.

I lean back on my sofa and close my eyes. I miss being home with her, even if she completely ignores me for her art. I should call my mother to find out how well Ava really is adapting to Zelda quitting. Ava doesn’t do well with changes. At. All. The result is usually a total meltdown even with numerous years of therapy. It took Ava months to recover when I went to Basic Training and Advanced Individual Training. But she is growing up and learning new coping techniques, or so my mother tells me since I’m rarely home long enough to see how Ava actually copes.

I should take my buddy McKlowski up on his offer for drinks. Or head to the gym to work off some of this anxiety. I know I’ll end up at Ephemera before doing either of those to see if that sexy little pixie is working... and buy those pencils for Ava. I need more pencils too. I wonder who