She’d tossed and turned half the night after texting Tessa that she was fine once Bullet left and briefly sharing her plans for the next day.
She was equal parts thrilled and terrified by the prospect of a motorcycle ride. What had she been thinking, agreeing to spend an entire day with a man whose face she’d never seen and his mysterious biker friends? Yet something about Bullet made her feel safer than she ever had with Jason.
The doorbell rang again, more insistently.
“Coming!” she called, throwing on her robe over the oversized t-shirt she regularly slept in and hastily running fingers through her sleep-tangled hair.
She checked the peephole before opening the door—a delivery person in a crisp uniform holding a large white box with a sleek black ribbon.
“Morgan Reeves?” the courier asked.
“That’s me.”
“Special delivery. Signature required.” He handed her a tablet to sign, then passed over the white box about the size of a microwave. “Have a good day, ma’am.”
Morgan carried the package to her kitchen table, heart fluttering with anticipation. There was no label, but she knew exactly who had sent it.
The ribbon slid off easily, and she lifted the lid to find a note in elegant handwriting on top:
For today’s adventure. See you at 9.
The laugh that burst out startled her in the silence of her apartment.
Beneath the note lay something wrapped in deep red tissue paper. She wasted no time tearing into it to reveal a beautiful set of riding gear. Morgan lifted each piece with growing appreciation. A high-quality leather jacket in deep oxblood red, fitted black riding pants with reinforced knees, and sturdy black boots that somehow looked stylish despite their obvious functionality. Tucked alongside was a pair of leather gloves.
Every piece looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. She remembered Bullet asking for her shoe size last night, but as she held up each item, it looked like everything would fit reasonably well. And women’s pants were the literal worst when trying to find the right size. How could he have gotten everything so perfect?
She told herself that this wasn’t a date even as her mind kept telling her it was the fastest relationship she’d ever started. She pushed the worry aside for now. The clothes looked like nothing she’d ever owned or even tried on before and she couldn’t wait to put them on.
After a quick shower and minimal makeup, she sectioned her hair with methodical precision and wove it into twin French braids. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency, creating plaits so tight and uniform they looked machine-made rather than handcrafted.
She remembered the tangled disaster her hair had become during a beach trip last summer, when the ocean breeze had transformed her locks into a salt-crusted, knotted mess that took hours and many tears to comb out. If a simple day at the beach could do that much damage, she could only imagine how catastrophic her hair would become at motorcycle speeds—these braids were her preemptive defense against what would surely be a worse ordeal.
Morgan tried on the pants first—her guess was right, they were a great fit if maybe a little loose. The boots followed, then the jacket over her own black tank top. She stood before her bathroom mirror in amazement. The outfit was both protective and flattering, hugging her curves without restricting movement.
It all fit too perfectly to be just a guess. For a moment, she wondered how he’d known, or worse, if he’d done this before for who knew how many others.
In the midst of overthinking and running scenarios through her mind her doorbell rang again. It was already 8:50 and her stomach flipped as she went to answer it fully dressed with gloves in hand.
Bullet stood in her hallway, and for the first time, she saw him in daylight. His face was still obscured—this time by a tight black mask covering his neck, mouthand nose, and tinted sunglasses that hid his eyes—but the rest of him was harder to ignore in the full light. His dark brown hair, longer on top and swept back with an easy wave, looked effortlessly styled. His jaw was strong even through the material, defined under the tight black fabric.
And up close, she noticed things she couldn’t before. The faint scar along his temple, just above the curve of his ear and the crease between his eyebrows. Even the way his broad shoulders filled out the worn leather jacket—it all painted a clearer picture.
She still didn’t know what all the details of his face looked like. But somehow, it was getting easier to imagine.
“Good morning,” he said, voice no longer filtered through the helmet modulator but still somehow familiar. “I see your gear arrived.”
“It did. Thank you—it’s perfect.” Morgan gestured to her outfit. “How did you know my size? Everything fits perfectly.”
“I didn’t,” he admitted. “One of my friends, Viper, has an eye for these things. He was with me Friday night when..." His shoulders came up in a lazy shrug, “You know.”
The unexpected relief softened something in her chest. He didn’t know her size by instinct. He wasn’t that kind of guy. Maybe—just maybe—whatever this was between them was something that could last.
“What does Viper do that he’d know my size just from seeing me the other day?”
“Oh, I guess that could seem really creepy.” He let out a good-natured laugh, “He’s a designer, lives in the fashion world and is extremely good at his craft. He’s got multiple clothing lines and part of that is dressing the models to accentuate the pieces for his photoshoots. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it as we ride today.” He tilted his head, appraising her. “He said the red would suit you. He was right.”
Something about the way he said it—admiration without objectification—made heat rise to her cheeks.
