Page 63 of Captain's Claim

My eyeballs feel like they’ve been removed, stomped on, and put back in the wrong way. My mouth tastes like regret. My stomach lurches at the memory of that weird hockey shot from hell and the multiple pink cocktails I definitely did not need after it.

I groan, rolling over and fully prepared to die in this bed, only for my nose to bump against somethingunexpected.

My brows furrow as I crack one eye open, the dim morning light filtering through my curtains just enough to reveal the contents of my nightstand.

And oh.

Something smells good.

Like,reallygood.

I blink at my nightstand, my vision still fuzzy. At first, I assume I’m hallucinating. Because there’s no way inhellwhat I’m seeing is real.

I sit up too fast. "Shit, bad choice, bad choice."

My brain slams into my skull and I squeeze my eyes shut. But I force myself to focus because this? This deserves myfullattention.

A thoughtfully assembled, over-the-top, too-perfect-to-be-coincidence care package sits on my nightstand. There's a thermos of coffee, clearly from Summit Café that's still warm when I grab it.

Beside it, is a neatly wrapped chocolate croissant, tied with baker's paper and a twine bow, like it's some kind of artisanal delicacy reserved only for proper French girls.

A take a slurp of coffee and swallow through the burn in my throat. Jeez. How much did I drink last night?

Lucky for me, there's ahugeglass of water positioned precisely beside two painkillers, like it's been placed on my nightstand by the goddamn guardian of hangovers.

But, wait… there's a note.

I stare at it for a second, my heart thudding in my chest. I reach for the small note with shaky fingers, the paper thick with messy handwriting on the outside.

You talk in your sleep, Hart. And you snore. Yes you do. Yes, you DO.

Drink the water. Take the painkillers.

And don't embarrass yourself in your interview today.

-Blake

I exhale sharply, pressing my lips together as I stare at the note in my hand.

Of course, Blake Maddox can’t just be sweet. He has to be grumpy about it too.

He has to insult me while taking care of me, like it pains him to do something this thoughtful. Like he couldn’t just leave the coffee and croissant without making sure I know that, in his mind, I snore like a chainsaw.

But despite myself, my lips curve.

Because this… This is ridiculous.

He took care of me last night. And now, he's still doing it this morning. Not because he had to, but maybe, just maybe, because hewantedto.

The realization sinks into my chest, as I pick up the thermos and pop the lid, inhaling deeply.

The second the scent of fresh coffee hits my nose, my shoulders relax and my headache stops pounding for just a sweet, blissful moment. It’s from Summit Café - which is quickly becoming my favorite coffee in the world.

He got it exactly how I take it and I take a sip. A quiet, involuntary moan escapes my lips.

Sweet merciful caffeine gods.

Warmth spreads through me instantly, soothing the sharp edges of my hangover. If this is what being brutally hungover in Iron Ridge looks like, I might just start drinking more often.

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