Page 54 of Organized Chaos
“What are you doing?”
I jumped, not expecting Brandon to wake up and catch me with my hand inside the cookie jar. It’d be a blatant attempt to hide my prying if I dropped the papers now. Better to come clean.
“What’s this?” I asked, voice lighthearted. I flipped the stack over so he could read the title on the front.
Raising his head off the pillow, Brandon squinted his eyes to view the item in question. “Contracts.” He stretched—still naked as the day he was born—and smiled when he caught me staring.
I turned away. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were on the clock. Do you have a lot of work to do while we are here?”
His eyes dogged the length of my body, barely covered by another one of his shirts. “Come here.” He opened his arm in an invitation.
Dropping the stack of papers, I climbed back into bed. He draped his arms impatiently around my waist to drag me closer. My face landed in the crook of his neck, the clean smell sidetracking my mind instantaneously.
“It’s just something I had to look over. But no, I’m not working this weekend.” His response surprised me. Brandon never explained himself to others. “So?” His hand slipped under my shirt, idly drawing circles on my bare hips.
The teasing and soft touches turned my brain to mush. I couldn’t understand what he was asking of me. “So?”
“So, did you have fun snooping through my shit?”
I would have tensed if the amusement wasn’t so thick in his voice. I shouldn’t be surprised that Brandon wasn’t angry. He didn’t lead with anger but rather sarcasm. A refreshing change from us Sinclairs—the hot-headed bunch.
“Just wanted to make sure the man who kidnapped me to Italy wasn’t hiding any dead bodies.”
“That’s a terrible misuse of time. If someone kidnaps you, there is no point searching for proof of their insanity. Instead, you should search the medicine cabinet. If they have any health conditions, you can exploit it.”
I smiled. No one could pull off dry humor like Brandon. “And if they don’t have any health conditions?”
“They might have other prescription medications. You can either drug them or make them OD on it.” His eyes were closed, but he spoke with utmost sincerity.
“Huh. Never thought of that. The only drug in my medicine cabinet is weed.”
Brandon stiffened, then raised his head off the pillow. Jaw slightly hanging down, he gaped at me with equal parts of awe and disbelief. “You,” he pointed at me, “Ms. Goody Two Shoes, smoke weed?”
“You sound impressed,” I mused.
“More like stunned.” He paused, then added somewhat begrudgingly, “And a little impressed. At least, you have done one bad thing in your life.”
Actually, I have done two bad things.
“Don’t be too proud. It’s medical marijuana. Prescribed by a doctor and totally legal.”
Brandon groaned. “God! You are the only person who manages to make smoking weed sound so fucking lame.”
I laughed, throwing my head back.
“Why did they prescribe it?”
I shrugged. “You know, stress, classes, and all that.” Plus, it calmed down the stress-induced fits I threw once in a while.
“I’m not surprised that your insane standards and expectations stress you out. It’s odd because most of it seems self-imposed.”
Brandon’s introspective analysis didn’t fit the bill with his remaining traits. It was impossible to believe the same man’s inattentiveness had landed him in this precarious position with his best friend’s little sister.
He met my eyes. “Achieving future ambitions doesn’t mean you have to ruin your present.”
I said nothing more as Brandon pulled me back to his chest.
My family did have unsurmountable expectations, and I pushed myself to meet them. I was a year ahead in school, starting senior year this fall. The workload led to crippling stress-induced nausea, and I was unable to keep food down for long.
