Bullet
Archer followed Morgan’s blue sedan through the evening traffic, maintaining a careful distance. His mind raced faster than his bike, analyzing the considerable risks of what he was doing.
This was uncharted territory. The careful compartmentalization of his life—Archer Sullivan in the boardroom, Bullet on the motorcycle—had never been tested like this. He’d never allowed himself to get this close to a relationship with anyone. He saw how the spotlight hurt his parents’ relationship not only with him, but also with one another.
Was he making a mistake? Was this doomed to fail before it even began?
Just yesterday, he’d been riding with the guys—close as brothers, loud in his helmet—but still alone in all the ways that mattered. Then he’d seen Morgan on the street, and in less than twenty-four hours, the walls he’d spent years building, had begun to crack. Kane fixing her locks this morning, the dinner tonight, and now following her home—it was all happening so suddenly. Was this how relationships worked?
Her car signaled right, pulling into the parking lot of a modern apartment building. Not luxury, but well-maintained, with security gates and manicured landscaping. He followed, parking his Ducati beside her car.
“Nice building,” he said as she got out of her car.
“Thanks,” Morgan replied, her eyes catching the streetlight as she looked up at him. “I like it. The evening security desk staff actually pays attention, unlike my last place.”
Archer made a mental note to look into the building’s security protocols. An automatic assessment he couldn’t switch off.
“Top floor,” she added, leading the way to the entrance. “Hope you don’t mind taking the stairs. The elevator’s been temperamental lately.”
“I don’t mind.” Climbing six flights in a motorcycle helmet wasn’t ideal, but he’d endured far worse during his military days.
The security guard nodded to Morgan as they entered. His eyes lingered on Archer’s helmet with obvious suspicion.
“Evening, Ms. Reeves. Everything alright?”
Reeves. Her last name was Reeves. Archer filed away this new piece of information.
“Everything’s great, Tony,” she assured the guard. “My friend’s just keeping his helmet on because he has a... skin condition. Very sensitive to air.”
Archer nearly laughed at the absurd explanation. A skin condition?
Tony looked dubious but shrugged. “If you say so, Ms. Reeves. Should I sign him in?”
“Not necessary,” Morgan said with a confidence that surprised Archer. “He won’t be staying long.”
Won’t be staying long. The statement was pragmatic, setting boundaries, yet Archer found himself oddly disappointed. What had he expected? To stay the night? Ridiculous. Impossible, given his self-imposed restrictions. And when had that idea even formed? He never stayed the night. Ever.
They climbed the stairs in comfortable silence. The helmet, usually a tool of liberation on the open road, felt stifling in the enclosed stairwell. By the sixth floor, Archer was rethinking his “I don’t mind stairs” statement.
Morgan unlocked her door—the new locks Kane had installed gleaming in the hallway light—and stepped aside to let him enter.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said with a trace of nervousness in her voice. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”
Archer stepped inside, taking in the space with a curious eye. The apartment wasmodest but thoughtfully arranged. Clean lines, balanced colors, artwork that showed genuine taste rather than whatever was trending. The space reflected its owner—practical yet warm, orderly but with unexpected touches of whimsy.
A massive collection of what looked to be art books filled one wall. A vintage record player sat in the corner beside carefully organized vinyl. On the nearby side table, an old rotary phone rested beside a worn notepad and a fountain pen, as if she still believed in handwritten messages and calls that came with a cord.
Whimsical. Old-fashioned. A little unexpected.
Just like her.
“You have a beautiful home,” he said, meaning it.
“Thank you.” Morgan set her large black bag down and slipped off her heels. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like coffee? Wine? Something stronger?”
Archer considered the logistics. Drinking meant removing the helmet, which meant turning away, which made the whole exercise rather pointless in her living room.
“Just water for now,” he said.
