Page 19 of Third Strike Smitten

I’m about to get up to brush my teeth when I hear a noise in the hallway. It’s late—well past midnight—and the hotel is quiet enough that every sound travels. At first I think it’s just someone heading to their room, but then I hear a frustrated grunt and the unmistakable sound of someone kicking something.

Another thump rattles through the wall. Metal by the sound of it. I’m on my feet before I’ve decided to move, fishing a clean T-shirt out of my bag, and then crossing to the door. Someone out there is clearly having a rough night. I can hear them muttering, low and frustrated, punctuated by another solid bang.

I shove my key card into the pocket of my shorts and step out into the hallway, trying to determine exactly where the sound is coming from. Finally, I reach the alcove where the ice machine and two vending machines sit, and there she is.

Isla Fallon.

She’s dressed in a pair of black leggings and an oversized Lagers sweatshirt that hangs off her shoulder, and unless there’s another type of garment magic going on that I don’t recognize, I’m pretty damn sure she’s not wearing a bra. Her pretty red hair is piled into a messy bun now, and she’s barefoot which strikes me as odd for a hotel hallway.

Does she not know how dirty hotel floors can be?

She’s jabbing at the machine’s buttons with more force than necessary, her face scrunched in concentration.

“I swear to all the gods if this thing steals my sour cream and onion chips, I’m becoming a supervillain,” she mutters, kicking the machine with her bare foot. “Ouch!”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “Pretty sure threatening hotel property already qualifies,” I say, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed.

Isla whirls around, her eyes wide for a split second before recognition sets in. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Disappointed?”

“No. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, and since when do you wear glasses?” She turns back to the machine, jabbing at the buttons again.

“Uh…evenings mostly. I don’t like having contacts in longer than I have to.”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t like them?” I find a tiny bit of amusement in her assessment.

“No, they’re…nice. Just surprised me is all. What are you doing out here?”

“Listening to someone assault a vending machine outside my door. Thought I might need to call security.”

She huffs, gesturing to the apparent evil machine in front of her. “This bastard stole my dollar. And my pride.”

“Your dollar?” I raise an eyebrow. “That’s what has you arguing with a vending machine at midnight?”

“It’s the principle.” She kicks it again, softer this time. “I put in my dollar, pressed D7, and now it won’t give me my chips. I mean, if it’s trying to tell me I don’t need chips this late at night, it could at least be a gentleman and give me my money back.”

I step up beside her, close enough to catch that strawberry scent again, and examine the machine. The display shows her selection, but the spiral hasn’t turned to drop the bag. “Did you try the kick method?” I demonstrate with a gentle nudge of my foot against the machine’s side. “Sometimes it just needs a little motivation.”

She peers down at her foot. “The forthcoming bruise on my big toe says yes.”

“Yeah, but you did it wrong. You have to kick it with purpose, not anger.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Absolutely.” I give the machine another nudge, slightly harder this time. “Anger is emotional. Purpose is tactical.”

She lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” The machine groans and the spiral finally turns dropping the intended bag of chips into the pickup tray. I lean down and retrieve her snack, holding it up in front of her. “Your chips, madam.”

“Thank you, kind sir.” She takes the bag with a small bow, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Your tactical vending machine kicking skills are impressive.”

“Years of practice.” I lean against the machine, suddenly not wanting to go back to my room just yet. “So, midnight snack run, huh?”

“I was hungry.” She tears open the bag and pops one into her mouth. “Mmm. The fruits of victory.” She tips it toward me. “Want one?”