She made sure the door closed quietly behind her.
Willow's nerves finally started to calm down as the elevator doors closed and she was safely headed back to the lobby of Thatcher's building.
The snow was still falling as she stepped out into the streets of Chicago, realizing for the first time just how close Thatcher's building was to hers. It wouldn't be a long walk home at all in the fresh snow.
It also reminded her that Thatcher lived in her neighborhood and she would have to find a way to avoid him for awhile. At least until she faded into a memory for him.
Because if she was being honest with herself, she knew Thatcher would wake up in the morning and might be disappointed that she wasn't there. His disappointment wouldn't last long though. He was a professional athlete. A football player in Chicago. Willow was probably just one of many women he brought home like that.
Willow would remember him for a long time, but she was sure he would forget about soon.
Chapter Two
Six months later
Thatcher checked his hair again to make sure it looked like he had actually put some effort into the way he looked tonight. It would help him remember why he was going out in the first place.
He hadn't been with a woman for months, which was unusual for him. After all, he was the star cornerback for the Chicago Stealth. And sure, that didn't carry the same weight as his quarterback or running back when they went out the bars together. Those guys usually got first pick of women. But Thatcher could hold his own when he went out with the team.
Except there was that woman who had been haunting his thoughts for months now.
He was still in a pretty dour mood after the Stealth's playoff elimination when he went to that restaurant to have dinner by himself on a random Friday night in the winter.
That's where he met her. She was sitting alone, just like him, at the table next to his and reading a book. It was a thriller from one of his favorite authors that he always read on the flights during his away games. So of course he asked her about it.
They talked for hours. He moved over to take the empty seat at her table. Her name was Willow, but she didn't tell him her last name. She wasn't a sports fan and didn't seem like she had ever heard of him, which kind of turned him on. Hell, shekind of grimaced when he said he was a professional athlete and he got a bit of a thrill when she didn't ask him to elaborate.
Most women either recognized him or at least recognized he had a big wallet when he said he played sports. Willow wasn't either one of those.
"I'm on the team poster on kids' bedrooms," he bragged. "Like, if you were a kid, wouldn't you want me on a poster on your wall?"
He made a cheesy pose to flex his biceps and noticed her eyes get wide. Yeah, she wanted that. But then she put him in his place.
"Actually, I think I would prefer a poster of Warren Buffett."
He couldn't help but laugh. No woman would say something like that to him. But then, no woman was quite like Willow.
She talked to him about her job with the Mercantile Exchange, and he loved listening to her tell him about numbers and metals.
"Everyone buys gold, but copper futures are where it's really at."
Was it wrong that something like that from a mouth like hers turned him on?
They shut the restaurant down, and he suggested they go back to his place for a drink. But as soon as the door closed, her lips were on his. Her kisses were heaven, her body was sinful. The moans she made were delicious, and his name from her mouth as she came undone was the best version he ever heard. He wished he could hear her say his name like that all the time.
Thatcher made her come twice that night, but she was gone the next morning. No note, no number. She had been haunting him ever since.
And that's how he ended up here, staring at himself in the mirror, trying to sabotage his date tonight.
He had connected with a woman on a dating app called SightUnseen. Its gimmick was that you couldn't see pictures of your potential matches so you would only judge people by their interests or the conversation you shared if they decided to connect with you. As someone with a famous face in Chicago, he liked the idea of anonymity, to be judged for his personality before a woman knew how big his wallet was.
Thatcher would be meeting up with LeLoup. He looked that up online. It meant The Wolf in French. He would be lying if he said that it didn't turn him on a little.
Thatcher, meanwhile, was LightningBolt. It was a play on his nickname, Thunder. When he walked down the street, there would even be an occasional fan yelling out "Thunder!" But he figured his nickname may be too obvious, so he went slightly different.
He took one more deep breath and walked out into his living room, determined to get the hell out of his place and get this over with. He prided himself on being on time to things – his mom had a real issue with punctuality that bugged him growing up. So Thatcher slid his wallet and phone into his back pocket and headed out in the Chicago night.
Although it wasn't really night yet. The spring evening was warm and bright but still not super hot like the summer. He had chosen a pair of black pants and a button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves. It may have seemed a little dressy, but he wanted to give a good first impression when he walked into the restaurant to meet her.
