Page 88 of Organized Chaos
Similarly, Brandon had fashioned a custom trap leading up to this moment. He had predicted my every reaction, including an attachment to my phone. He knew I’d be uncomfortable being seen with him in public and chose a place with a hidden room—information he could’ve only been privy to by digging around.
The question remained.Why is he doing this?
Did he not have the chance to spew out enough venom before I kicked him out and needed to have the last word?
My heart didn’t care for another bout of cruelty, but as long as he didn’t burn more of my books, he could berate me and then be on his merry way.
I draped my backpack and scarf on the back of a chair and plopped down. “Talk.”
Brandon settled across from me and picked up a menu from the table. “What’s good here?”
“Nothing. Absolutely everything’s disgusting here.”
“They have iced coffee.” He tapped the menu, unperturbed by my response.
“It’s freezing outside.” I paused. Who the hell cared about his temperature choice in drinks? “I don’t want iced coffee. You wanted to talk, so talk.”
“You’re right. Let’s do hot drinks.”
“Brandon, what am I doing here?”
A waitress in her mid-thirties poked her head through the door frame. “Oh, I didn’t know anyone was in here.” She glided toward us with pen and notebook in hand. This place was just fancy enough to have servers who took orders at the table. “Has anyone helped you yet?”
“Not yet.” Brandon dazzled her with a rare smile. He went as far as to engage in small talk. And he commented on the weather.
The fucking weather?!
Brandon could be charming when it suited him and purposefully chose to be an asshole at all other times. She was eating out of his palm and introduced herself, pointing out their most popular drink items.
“So, what can I get for you today?” she asked me, pen hovering over her notebook.
“A cell phone,” I muttered.
Brandon’s lips curved though he didn’t take his eyes off the menu.
“Excuse me?” The waitress looked between us, wondering what the hell she walked into.
“Sorry. Nothing for me, but thank you.”
“I’ll take a regular coffee.” Brandon inspected the menu closely before adding, “And she’ll have the pumpkin spice latte with almond milk.”
Another piece of information Brandon likely gathered during his investigation—my lactose intolerance and love for fall flavors.
I didn’t understand this man’s mind games or his angle.
Brandon ignored my bewilderment while inquiring about food recommendations. When the waitress mentioned they made scones from scratch—as long as we didn’t mind the wait—he added two.
When she left, I became determined to resume our original conversation. “You wanted to talk.” My foot tapped nervously under the table.
He leaned forward, pinning me in place with his eyes, well aware of the mesmerizing effect they had on others. He was too close for comfort. Snippets of our past dirty deeds flashed through my mind, and my thighs clenched at a particularly vulgar thought.
Unflinching, I stiffened the image. But Brandon’s smirk told me he knew of my thoughts as I had held my breath for far too long.
“In Italy, you expressed an interest in creating your own beauty products. But Milo mentioned you planned to attend Yale in the fall, followed by a Doctorate in Psychology. You lied about your aspirations.”
My jaw dropped. “Thisis what you want to discuss? I assumed you’d at least disclose your diabolical plan first.”
The sides of his lips quirked. “My diabolical what?”
