Morgan smiled at that.I doubt she’s expecting thanks from a mysterious biker.
We all play our part in fate’s design. Even unknowingly. Gotta go—VP giving me death glares for texting.
Morgan slipped her phone back into her drawer, her mood considerably lightened despite Richard’s impossible demands. VP? So Archer was working with vice presidents of companies. Definitely not just a weekend warrior, then.
Turning back to her computer, she created three new versions of the Henderson campaign with different color treatments, knowing full well that Richard would ultimately choose her original design after making her jump through hoops. It was his standard procedure—assert control, make her doubt herself, then grudgingly accept what she’d proposed in the first place.
The pattern hadn’t developed until she’d been here for almost 2 years, but this past year or so had been a study in frustration and late nights.
The afternoon crawled by at an excruciating pace. Morgan had finished the Henderson revisions before lunch as requested, only to have Richard wave them away with a distracted “I’ll look at these later” before disappearing into a meeting when she left for lunch.
By noon, her eyes were burning from staring at the screen, and her mind kept drifting back to the feel of Archer’s strong hands working the tension from her shoulders. She couldn’t wait for him to be at her apartment tonight with his mysteriously concealed face and unexpectedly gentle touch. The anticipation made the tedium of color adjustments almost bearable.
“Okay, spill it. Every. Single. Detail.”
Tessa didn’t even wait for Morgan to fully slide into the booth before leaning across the table like a woman on a mission. Her dark eyes gleamed with curiosity, short bob bouncing with dramatic flair.
“Hi to you too,” Morgan said, laughing as she picked up the menu.
“Oh, don’t act innocent. You were texting me cryptic updates all weekend—dinner on a street corner this, motorcycle ride that—and then radio silence since Sunday morning. Now you show up looking like you slept in a puddle of pheromones. Spill.”
Morgan tried to hide her grin behind the drink menu. “Maybe I just got a good night’s sleep.”
Tessa scoffed. “Please. You’ve got post-biker-afterglow written all over you. What happened?”
Morgan set the menu down, cheeks pink. “It was a great weekend. We had dinner Saturday, spent Sunday riding with his friends, then he came over. It wasn’t... that kind of night. But it was... intimate.”
Tessa narrowed her eyes. “Define intimate.”
“We watched a movie, he massaged my shoulders and feet. Then I fell asleep and he carried me to bed and tucked me in.”
Tessa made a strangled noise. “I—he—what?! Morgan. That is romantic fantasy level twelve. He tucked you in? Did he fluff the pillow too?”
“I think he did, actually,” Morgan said, and then burst out laughing.
“And dinner Saturday night, what happened then?”
“He had this private courtyard set up with fairy lights and candlelight and the meal was brought out in courses.” Her animated hand gestures caught the eye of a nearby table.
“Private courtyard?” Tessa repeated incredulously. “Like, romantic outdoor dining under the stars?”
“Yes, it was magical. But..."
“But what? Is he married?”
“No! At least, I don’t think so. He doesn’t wear a ring and there wasn’t a tanline that I could make out.”
“Well, that’s something,” Tessa relaxed slightly. “So aside from not seeing his face, what’s got you concerned?”
Morgan hesitated, uncertain how to explain the unique situation without sounding completely insane. “He’s... private. Very private.”
“Like, doesn’t-share-personal-details private or serial-killer private? Because there’s a difference, Morgan.”
“The first one,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes. “He’s just protective of his identity.”
The waitress arrived to take their lunch order, and once she walked away, Tessa leaned in again. “Okay. Real talk. This biker, if he still hasn’t given you his real name, that’s a pretty big red flag babe.”
“Actually, last night, he did tell me his first name, Archer.”
