Chapter 10 Morgan
Morgan
Morgan woke to the insistent blare of her alarm with a groan.
Monday mornings were never her favorite, but today felt particularly cruel after the freedom and exhilaration of yesterday’s motorcycle adventure.
Her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache—inner thighs, lower back, shoulders, neck—all reminding her of the few hours she spent on the back of Bullet’s bike yesterday, even if they did take quite a few breaks throughout the day.
Bullet. No—Archer, she corrected herself, savoring the knowledge of his real name. In her sleepy state, she could almost feel the vibrations under her legs, the feel of him as she tightened her arms around him as they leaned into the corners.
Had that really happened? Had she really spent yesterday riding along coastal highways with a man whose face she’d never seen, then fallen asleep against him while he massaged her feet?
Her phone chimed with a text notification, banishing any lingering doubts.
Good morning. Hope you’re not too sore today.
The simple message sent a flutter through her stomach. She smiled as she tapped out a reply.
Everything hurts. Totally worth it. Good morning to you too.
His response came immediately: Try a hot shower and stretching. It gets easier the more often you do it.
Is that a motorcycle thing or just life advice in general? she texted back, feeling a playfulness she hadn’t experienced in months.
Both. Still on for tonight?
Morgan’s smile widened. Definitely. My place? I’ll cook.
I'm looking forward to it. Have a good day, Morgan.
She hugged the phone to her chest for a moment, feeling ridiculously like a teenager with her first crush. Then reality intruded in the form of the clock—she had forty minutes to get ready and make it to the office.
The hot shower did help ease her muscles, just as Archer had suggested.
As she dressed in her work clothes—a navy pencil skirt and cream blouse that felt confining after yesterday’s freedom in leather—Morgan found herself wondering what Archer was wearing to his meeting.
A suit, probably. Something expensive and well-tailored.
Or maybe he wore leather jackets and intimidating helmets to his meetings too. She still knew so little about what he actually did for a living.
As she gathered her things for work, Morgan spotted the riding gear she’d neatly folded the night before on her dresser.
The expensive-looking leather jacket, the fitted pants, the boots that must have cost more than her monthly rent.
Who was Viper to design such pieces that she was sure the average biker wouldn’t be able to afford.
As she thought about it more, men who rode motorcycles as a weekend hobby didn’t typically invest in the quality of gear she noticed them wearing yesterday.
Who exactly was the man behind the mask and sunglasses?
“Earth to Morgan!”
The sharp voice of her boss, Richard, pulled her from her daydream. She’d been staring at the same mock-up for twenty minutes, her mind wandering to strong hands and intricate tattoos.
“Sorry, Richard. I was just considering alternative approaches for the Henderson campaign.” The lie fell easily from her lips.
Richard gave her a skeptical look but didn’t push further. “Our next meeting is at 3:00. I need your revisions by 1:00.”
“I submitted those on Saturday,” Morgan reminded him. “The version with the blue gradient background and simplified logo treatment.”
“I need more options,” he said dismissively. “The blue doesn’t pop enough.”
Suppressing a sigh, Morgan nodded. “I’ll have it ready before I leave for lunch.”
As Richard walked away, her phone vibrated in her desk drawer. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then checked the message.
Thinking about you during a meeting about security protocols. I much prefer thinking about you.
The simple text sent warmth spreading through her chest. She quickly replied: Same. Except substitute “security protocols” with “color gradients that will never see the light of day because my boss can’t make decisions.”
Three dots appeared, then: Sounds frustrating. Can you escape for lunch?
Meeting my friend Tessa for lunch today. It’s because of her that I met you.
Ah. The catalyst. Tell her thank you from me.
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.”
“Just Archer?”
Morgan nodded. “That’s all he’s given me so far.”
“And you still haven’t seen his face?”
Morgan gave a helpless little shrug. “Sorta, but not exactly. Does his hair count?”
Tessa’s eyes sharpened. “Morgan. Babe. I adore you, but I need to say this as your best friend and as someone with extremely resourceful contacts who owe me favors—give me 24 hours and I can tell you exactly who this Archer guy is.”
Morgan held up a hand. “Don’t. Seriously. I know you can, but I don’t want you to.”
“You don’t want to know?”
They paused as their meals were delivered.
“I do. Eventually. But... not like that. If this is going to be anything real, it has to unfold naturally. I want him to open up and tell me.”
Tessa stared at her for a beat, then sipped her iced tea with exaggerated innocence. “Sure. Okay. Naturally.”
Morgan narrowed her eyes. “Tessa..."
“What?” she said, all mock innocence. “When you inevitably vanish with Helmet Hunk, I’d just like a head start on where to send the search dogs.”
Morgan groaned, laughing into her napkin.
“Okay, so,” Tessa continued, switching gears, “You met his friends—plural. That’s major.”
“Yeah. They’re all ex-military, super chill. One’s a fashion designer, one customizes bikes, and one runs some kind of security consulting firm or something to do with technology, I’m not quite sure.”
Tessa blinked. “I’m sorry—a fashion designer biker? Is he hot?”
“Extremely.”
“God, that’s annoying. Were they all wearing leather jackets and calling each other cool nicknames like Tank and Ghost?”
"...Actually, yes.”