Page 4 of XOXO, Yours

I smack the side of it, the sound sharp and flat in the tiny room filled with buzzing machines. My palm stings.

Nothing.

I smack it again, harder, my reflection ghosting back at me in the smudged glass. My brown hair is wild from me constantly running my fingers through my loose waves. My eyes are close to being red-rimmed, but I’m not a crier so it’s mostly from me pressing my hands against them. I am the very embodiment of a woman one bad vending machine experience away from a complete breakdown.

Still, the damned machine begrudgingly holds onto my would-be snack.

"Violence rarely improves negotiations."

The deep male voice behind me startles me enough that I whirl around with my fist still raised, heart slamming against my sternum.

Holy… cowboy.

He’s tall. Tall enough that I have to tip my chin up to meet his eyes. Before I get to those eyes, though, I notice how his impossibly broad shoulders fill out a faded denim jacket thrown over a white dress shirt, tie yanked loose at the collar. It’s reminiscent of James Dean. Only this guy is big enough to smash James Dean into the ground. Granted James Dean was only like five foot eight. Why am I even thinking about James Dean?

Cowboy’s dark hair is a little too long, and it curls slightly at the collar. Thank God he’s not wearing a ball cap, or I think my panties would combust. Is it just me that finds that incredibly sexy? The way a man’s hair can curl around the edges of his ball cap when it’s time for a haircut.

His eyes are blue. Like Texas sky blue after a blue northern. I look like the crypt keeper’s sister—because no one looks good under fluorescent lights at eleven at night. Except this man. Because he looks like he walked off the pages of a hot cowboy calendar. They make those, right? I mean, I know they have the firemen calendars, so it seems they should have cowboys too.

And I bet that smile of his probably gets him out of all kinds of trouble. It’s easy and lopsided. His lips twitch, and I realize I’ve just been standing here cataloging all of his features like some kind of pervert.

He holds out a fresh five-dollar bill and waves it a little. I can already tell from looking at it that it’s worn and soft at the edges, like it's lived in his wallet a while.

"I've found positive reinforcement works better,” he says, his crooked grin still firmly in place.

"I don't need your money." It comes out sharper than I mean it to, all the fear and adrenaline with nowhere else to go.

"I didn't say you did." He’s completely unbothered by my clipped tone.

"Then why are you offering it?"

He shrugs, one shoulder rolling easy, like this is the most natural conversation in the world to be having with a stranger at a vending machine at the worst hour of my life.

He steps closer to the machine and feeds his five dollars into the slot. He presses the corresponding letter and number and this time two of the candy bars fall into the bin. Then the sound of coins dropping into the change well.

The vending machine hums against my shoulder blade, a low electric buzz that vibrates straight through my shirt. A cart’s wheel squeaks somewhere down the hall. Then a page calls for a doctor I’ll never meet.

“I’ve got two sisters,” Cowboy says. “I know what it looks like when a woman needs chocolate.”

I stare at the two candy bars in his enormous hand, a hand I think could probably palm my whole face. The wrappers crinkle where his fingers curl around them.

I look back up at him.

He’s got to be six-four, easy. Shoulders that block out a good chunk of the fluorescent light behind him. His easy smile is likely practiced, and I’m annoyed at how much it calms the riot going on in my belly.

A stranger’s smile should not put me at ease, no matter how handsome said stranger is.

“This feels like a trap.”

“It’s really not.”

“Because if I take that, I’m accepting candy from a stranger.”

“Then let’s remedy that. I’m Payton.” He winks. “Now I’m not a stranger.”

His gaze flicks over me, and it isn’t quick. It isn’t polite either. Not rude, just unhurried, like he’s committing me to memory. Those blue eyes start somewhere around my messy ponytail and end somewhere around my sneakers.

And something about the slow, deliberate way he does it sends a little pulse of heat straight through my belly.