At precisely 5:00 PM, Morgan shut down her computer, gathered her things, and walked out of the office without a backward glance. She had shopping to do and a meal to prepare.
Tonight, she would cook dinner for a man whose face she’d never seen, whose body she’d traced with curious fingers, whose presence made her feel more alive than she had in longer than she could remember.
As she stepped into the early evening sunshine, Morgan felt a lightness that had nothing to do with leaving work behind and everything to do with where—and to whom—she was headed.
11
Bullet
Archer checked his watch for the third time in as many minutes. 6:37 PM. Still too early to head to Morgan’s apartment without seeming overeager. He paced the length of his private office, helmet tucked under his arm, unable to focus on the acquisition documents his CFO had left for his review.
The Sullivan Enterprises executive offices had emptied out over an hour ago, the staff unaccustomed to seeing their CEO still present as they took their leave.
Archer typically handled evening work from his penthouse office, a concession to not wanting to lose the best assistant he ever had, Jennifer. Years ago it was common for him to be haunting his office late into the evening, however when she came on board just a few years ago and not only minimized his workload, but also had an uncanny ability to know when a deal would go south.
She was the only assistant who had ever chewed him out after one-too-many late nights and he now made sure she got home at a decent time each night. Their agreement was that he’d pay her extra up to twice per month for her to drop everything to get something situated and figured out. It was a good system, that he was utilizing less and less with how efficient she was, he’d only needed her help twice over the last 4 months.
It was a good system as he wasn’t willing to lose the best assistant he ever had because of his workaholic tendencies, but tonight, he’d lingered even through Jennifer’s scrutiny as she took her leave. The thought of returning to his sterile living space, filled with expensive but impersonal furnishings, held little appeal compared to the warmth of Morgan’s modest apartment.
His private phone vibrated and his heart rate kicked up a notch.
Just got home. Cooking has commenced. See you at 7?
Archer smiled behind his privacy screen of office blinds.On my way.
He slipped the phone into his pocket and gathered his riding jacket. As he headed toward the private elevator that would take him to the garage level where his Ducati waited, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the darkened windows.
Archer Sullivan, CEO, was nowhere to be seen since he’d changed out of his suit in his private bathroom. The man in the reflection—leather jacket, dark jeans, excited gleam in his eye—looked like someone else entirely. Someone freer. Someone who might be worthy of a woman like Morgan.
The ride to her apartment through evening traffic gave him time to clear his head. Today had been complicated—in the latest batch of companies his enterprise was looking at purchasing, and Vertex Creative was near the top of the list.
However, Vertex’s financial analysis had revealed inconsistencies that troubled him and acquisition negotiations were becoming contentious. His executive team was starting to question his unusual interest in this particular small company. A company they would have quickly passed over with the difficulties it was presenting.
None of that mattered right now. For the next few hours, he wasn’t Archer Sullivan with the weight of a corporate empire on his shoulders. He was just Archer, a man looking forward to dinner with a woman who made him want to throw caution to the wind and break all his careful rules that kept his public and private lives separate.
As he climbed the stairs to her sixth-floor apartment, Archer caught the scent of garlic and herbs wafting down the stairwell. His stomach rumbled in appreciation—he’d skipped lunch for back-to-back meetings.
She opened the door before he could knock, as if she’d been waiting for the sound of his footsteps. The sight of her—barefoot in jeans and a soft blue sweater, hair loose around her shoulders, cheeks flushed from cooking—hit him with unexpected force.
“Hi,” she said, a smile spreading across her face. “You’re right on time.” She reached for him and pulled him into an unexpected hug that he barely had time to reciprocate before she was darting back towards the kitchen.
“Something smells amazing,” he replied, stepping inside.
“Chicken piccata. Nothing fancy, but it’s one of the few dishes I can make without a recipe.”
Archer removed his jacket but kept his helmet on. The routine was becoming familiar, though no less absurd. What kind of man kept his face hidden during dinner? The kind who’d created walls so high between his identities that breaking them down felt impossible.
“Can I help with anything?” he offered, following her to the kitchen.
“You can open the wine.” She pointed over her shoulder, “There’s a bottle of Pinot Grigio in the fridge.”
He found the wine and a corkscrew waiting for him on the counter, then paused, facing a practical problem. “I’ll need to take my helmet off to taste this.”
Morgan glanced over her shoulder from where she was draining pasta. “I can turn around whenever you need to drink or eat. No peeking, I promise.”
The arrangement was ridiculous, yet she accepted it without question. Her casual accommodation of this unusual circumstance touched something deep in his chest.
“Thank you,” he said, the words inadequate for what he was really trying to express.
