She told him about losing her parents almost three years ago—her father to a heart attack, her mother to cancer just six months after. He spoke of his company in vague terms that suggested success but revealed little about its nature. They discovered a shared love of old film noir movies and a mutual disdain for reality television.
By dessert—a decadent chocolate creation that made Morgan momentarily forget her dining companion—she realized she was genuinely enjoying herself. Not just the novelty of the situation, but the man himself. Whoever he was beneath that helmet, he listened. Really listened, in a way Jason, or really everyone she’d previously dated never had.
“I have to ask,” she said as they finished their dessert. “How did you arrange all this? Private courtyard, personal chef, the whole setup.”
“I told you. I know people.”
“Must be some impressive people.”
“They have their uses.” The amusement in his voice was evident even through the helmet. “But I wanted to do something special. To thank you.”
“Thank me? I was supposed to be thanking you. The locks, the dinner..."
“For trusting me,” he clarified. “When you had every reason not to. Most women wouldn’t agree to dinner with someone whose face they’ve never seen, especially in a mysterious location.”
“Well, I’m not stupid, I had a contingency plan.” She shrugged one shoulder before continuing, “But maybe I’m not most women.”
“I’m starting to see that.”
The air between them felt charged, intimate despite the physical barrier of his helmet. Morgan found herself wondering what it would be like to kiss him, to feel the man behind the mystery.
As if reading her thoughts, he said, “This is where things get complicated.”
“How so?”
“I’d like to see you again.”
Six simple words that sent her heart racing. “I’d like that too.”
“But the helmet stays on. For now.”
Morgan should have found the request strange, off-putting even. Instead, she felt a thrill of anticipation. “For how long?”
“Until we both decide it’s time for it to come off. There’s things you’d need to know, but I’m not ready to share just yet.”
She considered this. The logical part of her brain screamed that this was insane—developing any kind of relationship with a man whose face she hadn’t seen, whose real name she didn’t know. But some deeper instinct told her there was something genuine beneath the mystery.
“I have conditions,” she said finally.
“Name them.”
“One: I don’t share. So this is exclusive, or nothing at all.”
He nodded. “Agreed.”
“And two..." She hesitated, then decided to go for broke. “I want to be able to touch your face.” She raised her hands to halt the objection she could feel coming, “Not see it, just... feel it. Tonight.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever. Finally, he said, “Why?”
Morgan wasn’t entirely sure herself. “Because right now you’re not quite real to me. You’re a voice in a helmet. I need something just a little more tangible than that.”
He considered this, the helmet tilting slightly as if he were studying her. “Alright. After dinner, outside. But with your eyes closed.”
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of anticipation. When the waiter cleared their dessert plates, Bullet paid the bill without letting Morgan see the amount.
“This was supposed to be my treat,” she protested.
“Next time,” he promised, standing and offering his hand.
