Morgan seemed to understand anyway, her smile softening. “It’s ready. Hope you’re hungry.”
They sat at her small dining table, and Archer found himself relaxing as Morgan talked about her day. She described her lunch with Tessa, laughing about her friend’s reaction to their unconventional relationship. The word “relationship” hung in the air between them, neither acknowledging it directly.
“How was your day?” she asked, looking at him expectantly.
Archer hesitated. What could he say?I spent the morning reviewing acquisition targets including your employer. I met with with foreign investors who might back my next expansion. I fired a sales team for ethical violations I discovered during a security audit.None of that belonged in this room, with this woman.
“Long,” he said finally. “Meetings. Spreadsheets. The usual corporate landscape.”
“Security consulting involves a lot of spreadsheets?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“More than you’d think. Risk assessments are largely statistical.”
Morgan nodded, seeming to accept this. “I’m going to turn around,” she said suddenly.
“What?”
“So you can take off your helmet and eat before your food gets cold.”
Archer complied, removing his helmet once her back was to him. The first bite of chicken piccata nearly made him groan aloud—perfectly cooked, the lemon and caper sauce bright against the richness of the chicken.
“You can turn back,” he said after swallowing and putting the helmet back on.
“Good?” she asked hopefully.
“Incredible. You’ve been hiding culinary talents.”
The meal continued in this manner—comfortable conversation interspersed with Morgan turning away so he could take bites or sips of wine. Despite the awkwardness, there was something intimate about the trust it required, the silent acknowledgment that this peculiar arrangement was worth the effort.
“I stood up to my boss today,” Morgan said as they finished eating.
“Oh?” Archer carefully kept his voice neutral, though his interest sharpened immediately. The report on Vertex Creative had flagged the department head—Richard Jenkins—as a potential problem. Several financial irregularities traced back to projects under his supervision.
“He wanted me to stay late, again, to redo work that was already finished. No overtime pay, of course.” She shook her head. “I refused. Told him I had plans and that I wasn’t staying past five.”
“How did he take it?” Archer asked, genuinely curious.
“Not well. But he backed down, which surprised me.” Morgan tilted her head, studying him through the visor of his helmet. “I don’t think I would have done that before meeting you.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Something about you and your friends... you all seem so certain of your worth. It made me realize I’ve been letting people determine mine for too long.”
Archer felt a complex tangle of emotions—pride in her standing up for herself, concern about her boss’s behavior, and a strange guilt that his presence in her life might be disrupting her professional situation. Whether Sullivan Enterprises acquired Vertex or not, he’d make sure she was taken care of, but would she hate him for it?
Many of the problems his parents had were because of who their son was. Money could solve a lot of problems, but could create a lot of problems too. It had wreaked havoc on his parent’s marriage. They’d made it work, but his fame was ultimately what had caused the car accident that killed them.
It’s why he made such an effort to keep his private life just that, private. When no one knew who was really close to you, they couldn’t hurt you.
“I think that strength was always in you,” he said carefully. “But I’m glad if I played any part in helping you see it.”
Morgan smiled, the expression reaching her amber eyes. “I’ll get dessert,” she announced, rising from her chair.
Archer watched her through his helmet’s visor as she moved to the refrigerator, admiring the graceful efficiency of her movements. The domesticity of the moment struck him—sitting at her table, sharing a meal she’d prepared, talking about their days. This simple intimacy was something he hadn’t experienced since he was a kid.
“Tiramisu,” she said, returning with two small plates. “Store-bought, I confess. My culinary skills only extend so far.”
When she set the dessert before him, her fingers brushed against his briefly. Even that minimal contact sent warmth spreading through his chest.
