Page 40 of Captive of Outlaws

Not LJ and bearing caffeine. That’s good enough for me, I guess.

“Come in,” I say. I don’t even bother to get out of bed as the door swings open. It’s Will, dressed crisply as ever, bearing an entire French press of beautiful deep brown salvation in one hand, a mug hooked around his finger. Under his other arm are a bunch of brown paper packages.

“Good morning there, greasemonkey.” He flashes a grin, setting down the packages first. “Looking at little rough, eh?”

I realize too late that my hair’s a mess and I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet. I fold my arms in a futile gesture of defense. “No thanks to you and your...” I wave my hand in the air.

“Cotes du Rhone.” Will sets the coffeepot and mug on the table near my reading nook—thereading nook, I correct myself. I don’t live here.

It’s only temporary.

“And yes, I...apologize for that,” Will goes on. “Hence mebringing you a peace offering.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Was that even your idea?”

Will sighs. “Okay, no. Tuck made the coffee and Rob insisted I bring it.” He glances at the French press, then at his watch. “It’s got another two minutes.” He stares at me. “How are you feeling?”

“Been better,” I say drily. “I’m not supposed to drink a lot, in case that wasn’t obvious.”

Will quirks an eyebrow. “Not supposed to?”

Shit. Revealing my epilepsy would be a bad move here. The last thing I need is to reveal a weakness these guys can exploit. Not that they necessarilywould, but...well, I’ve already seen once what happens when you trust people blindly.

Not again.

“Just a personal rule,” I croak. “You know, knowing my own limits, or whatever.” Time for a subject change. I nod at the packages. “What are those?”

“Oh, yes. Your wardrobe is here—or part of it, anyway.” Will drums his fingers on the top box. “Rob said to tell you that Jack hopes you like it, and there’s more where this came from. Just some things to get you started.”

That actually makes me perk up a little. I’ve now been wearing these sweats for far longer than is sanitary, and the thought of putting anything else on my body—especially something nice—is admittedly tempting.

Will smiles. “Look at you, all excited over clothes.”

I frown. “You would be too, if you hadn’t changed in days.”

“I would be even if I had,” Will says. “I appreciate a good wardrobe, as I hope is evident.” He glances at his watch. “Coffee time.” He turns to the French press and slowly pushesthe plunger down, releasing a delicious aroma throughout the room. The smell alone is enough to spring me out of bed.

“Gimme,” I say, making a clawing gesture at the mug.

“Easy,” Will says, waving me off. “Let me pour it first.” He does, and hands me the mug. “Cheers.”

I take a sip, and it’s absolutely heavenly. A far cry from the piss-poor lukewarm cups Uncle John’s favorite Keurig would make. I close my eyes and take another long pull.

“So you like it, then?” Will smirks. “I’ll let Tuck know.”

Embarrassed, I open my eyes and tuck my hair behind my ear. Now that I’m more awake, and out of bed, the full awkwardness of this moment hits me square in the chest.

Will, for his part, doesn’t seem flustered. But I doubt he evergetsflustered.

“Thank you,” I say. “For bringing the coffee. And bringing up my clothes.”

“Any time,” Will says. “Like I said, I’m doing penance. I shouldn’t have presumed you...wanted to drink that much.”

“You didn’t pressure me,” I say quickly. “I did it on my own. But...” I wince, thinking back to what I said.

I’m a bad, bad girl.

Dear Lord. Kill me now.

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