Page 3 of Her Naughty Soldier

Inthechaosofmy art shed, I stand before a canvas that's stubbornly blank, brush in hand. My mind isn't on the swirls of color or the shape I want to create; it's on Ethan. Ethan, who transformed from Jake's solemn friend into someone else entirely in just a matter of moments.

I try to focus, guiding the brush across the canvas with a hand that feels oddly disconnected. It's silly to expect him to have recognized me. The last time we saw each other, I was just Jake's little sister, more a background annoyance than anything. But now? I've grown from that awkward girl into a woman with her own identity—well-educated, well-traveled, and carving a name in the local art scene.

He's not the lanky teenager I remember, either. He's filled out, muscles well-defined in a way that speaks of discipline and strength. Those dimples that flash when he smiles add a boyish charm to his ruggedness. Yet, there's something in his eyes, a shadow, a depth that wasn't there before.

And then there's the way my heart raced when he caught my hands, a mix of shock and something dangerously close to excitement.

Laughing at myself, I recall the mortifying moment I tried to undress him, mistaking him for my model. It's like a scene from a cheesy rom-com, only I'm the flustered lead, and the handsome guy is my brother's best friend.

Off-limits.

I add a stroke of cerulean, but it's all wrong, an external manifestation of my inner turmoil. Acting on this attraction is a line I can't cross, shouldn't even think about crossing. And I’m sure he isn’t thinking about it either.

Frustration bubbles up, and I set the brush down with a sigh. Painting usually clears my head, but today, Ethan's deep-set hazel eyes and the stories they hint at cloud my thoughts. I need a break, something to eat, a distraction.

I clean my hands, smearing paint on the rag, and step out of the shed, the day’s light fading into a soft evening glow. The plan is simple: get some food, clear my head, and maybe, just maybe, stop thinking about Ethan for more than a minute.

Unfortunately, the universe has other plans. As I make my way toward the house, my thoughts are interrupted by a figure emerging from the side door. It's Ethan, and he's carrying a plate piled with sandwiches and a bag of chips. My first thought is that he's making himself at home, but then he sees me and extends the plate.

“I figured you might be hungry,” he says, a hint of hesitation in his voice. “Sandwich?”

I'm taken aback by his thoughtfulness. “For me?” I ask, a smile breaking across my face.

He nods, a small smile of his own forming. “For us. Can’t paint on an empty stomach, right? And I could use the company.”

I accept the plate, my fingers brushing against his briefly. The contact sends a tiny jolt through me, unexpected but not unwelcome. “Thank you, Ethan. That’s really kind of you. Want to sit on the porch?”

He nods, and we move to the back porch, settling into the comfortable chairs. I unwrap a sandwich, still slightly surprised by Ethan's gesture. The ease of his company is both comforting and disarming.

"So, tell me about your time overseas," I venture, curious about the chapters of his life I've missed.

Ethan takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before answering. "Overseas was... intense. Learned a lot, saw too much," he says.

I can't help but be drawn in, curious about this other world he's seen. "I can only imagine. Must have been a whole different reality."

He chuckles, a brief, wry sound. "You could say that. We had our fair share of close calls, but also a lot of downtime. Got really good at cards. And, believe it or not, improvised cooking."

"Really?" I laugh, surprised. "Ethan Spencer, master chef and card shark?"

He grins, and there's a brief lightness in his expression. "Well, I wouldn't go that far. But let's just say I can make a mean meal out of MREs, and my poker face is pretty solid."

I smile, enjoying this glimpse into his lighter side. "Sounds like skills that could come in handy."

His expression sobers slightly, but the warmth remains. "It's those little things that kept us going. But what really sticks with me is the resilience of the people we met. It put a lot of things into perspective."

He pauses, taking another bite of his sandwich. "That's why this mentorship role here in Larkspur feels right. I've seen young people facing tough situations. If I can use what I've learned to help guide them, maybe it'll make a difference."

"That's really admirable," I say sincerely, impressed by his commitment.

He shrugs modestly. "I'm just trying to turn what I've learned into something positive. Plus, I've always been good with structure and planning. Guess the military hammers that into you."

"It sounds like they're lucky to have you," I tell him, and I mean it. His blend of strength and vulnerability, his dedication to making a difference—it's a rare combination.

"Yeah, well," he says, a touch of embarrassment in his smile, "I’m still a work in progress."

“Now you’re speaking my language. I’m no stranger to a work-in-progress,” I joke, waving a hand at my studio.

Ethan's smile widens a bit at my comment. “So, you’re an artist? Is that how you make your living?”

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