Page 1 of Love at a 7-Eleven

Chapter 1

Lila Decker

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Chicago, Illinois

June

"Hang on, I'm stopping at this gas station really quick. Let me concentrate on driving for a sec." I paused while I maneuvered through traffic and pulled into the parking lot of the 7-Eleven. I did not need gas, so I crept along the side of the pumps, heading toward the parking spots at the front of the store.

"Why are you going to the gas station?" My mom asked the question and it came over my speakerphone.

"Hang on," I said, concentrating. I barely made it around a huge truck and into a tiny parking spot. "There was only one spot left, and I saw someone else pulling in. I thought I might have to fight for it."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just joking."

"Are you getting gas?"

"No, I have a full tank of gas. I'm getting some headache medicine."

"Bonnie has all kinds of medicine at the office. Aren't you on your way to Halas?"

"Yes, but I wanted a certain kind of medicine."

"Okay, you know they have everything up there."

"I know, thank you," I agreed vaguely. I was nervous about this meeting, and I didn't want to talk to Bonnie about headache medicine, but I didn't say any of that to my mom.

"Okay, baby, be careful getting in and out of that gas station. You need to drive defensively."

I smiled because I had been living on my own for a few years and in and out of a gas station a ton of times since then. "I'm already parked. I’m fine. Love you, Mom. I'll see you tomorrow probably."

"Okay, good luck talking to Bob today. Text me and let me know how that goes."

"I will, and thank you."

"I love you," she said.

"Bye, I love you too."

I hung up with my mother, turned off the ignition, and then I waited for the car next to me to close their door so that I could get out of my SUV. It was a gorgeous day. The sun was shining so brightly that I had to adjust my shades as I began to walk toward the door. There had been some spills in the parking lot, and it wasn't the cleanest path from my car to the door. I stepped around one puddle with an iridescent ring around it that looked like gasoline. There was another half-dried pool of green liquid that was probably once a slushy.

I easily avoided each of them and made my way inside the store. It was a nice, smallish but well-lit convenience store that I had been to before. I glanced in a narrow mirror that lined the wall. I was wearing a nice blouse and dressy shorts with sandals. The theme of my outfit was navy, orange, and white for the Bears, although it was understated. I had plenty of clothes in these colors. I had been dressing for the Bears my whole life. My father had established a legacy with the Chicago Bears. His jersey was retired, and I was a lifetime fan.

I had been to the Chicago Bears training facility plenty of times. I had stopped at this same gas station on my way there before. I walked to the cooler where I knew I would find my favorite energy drink. A guy was staring into the closed glass door, and I stopped when I was a few feet behind him, giving him room.

He was a big guy, and he had the body of an athlete. Not that I was looking, but it was obvious. He was wearing jeans with a black t-shirt, and it was fitted enough that I could tell he worked out. Not that I cared. He was nearly the size of my brothers, though.

And then I saw the tattoos. His left arm was covered in patterned tribal designs, all the way down to his forearm. I had always loved that kind of tattoo, and I stared at the back of his arm. It was objectively beautiful work. The design seemed to be contained to his left arm, and I stared at the back of it thinking it looked familiar. He looked familiar. I could see the back side of his face, and I felt like I knew him.

I had a constant flow of professional athletes in my life, so it could be a number of different people. My dad still had a ton of athletic connections, and my brothers had their own sports accolades. I had been around enough college and pro athletes to confuse this guy with one of them.

I liked his style—from his hair gel down to his spotless tennis shoes. He had thought about every stitch of the seemingly understated outfit. He smelled nice, too. Or maybe that wasn't him. I caught a whiff of some light woodsy masculine scent, but I couldn’t be sure where it was coming from. I loved this guy's look, though, and I hadn't even fully seen his face.

As soon as I had that thought, he turned around and looked straight at me. "I'm sorry. I'm just wasting time in here. Do you need to get to this cooler?" He moved to the side to let me through and, yes, the scent was coming from him. He had an absolutely stunning face—high cheekbones, dark eyes.

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