Chapter 7
Seven
The room was much bigger than expected. Freshly painted, it came with built-in cupboards and a wonderful view of the stables. It was like paradise, with a large queen-size bed that seemed new. ‘Who else used this room?’ Amara asked.
‘Just my parents when they visited.’ Porter’s voice carried from the back.
‘How often is that?’
‘Whenever they can get away.’ Porter carted two boxes on his heavy-duty hand trolley and lined them up in the hallway. ‘Are you sure you want all these boxes crowding your room?’
‘Umm…’ She shrugged. She didn’t even want this housemate situation, but she’d bought a horse. She wasn’t going to buy it, but with Craig on one side and Finn on the other, it was like a devil on either shoulder, both telling her to do it.
So she did.
Now her whole world was turned upside down, and she needed to get the chaos back into order. ‘No, I don’t need the boxes in my room, but I’d like to sort through them.’
‘I can put them on the back verandah for you to unpack when ready.’ He pointed to the one labelled kitchen. ‘You cook?’
‘When I can.’ It’d been a while, living in the pub. ‘You?’
‘Yeah. And look, I have my own system for meals. So I’m not expecting us to cook for each other, especially when I do shiftwork. But I’ll clean out a cupboard, and a few shelves in the pantry and some fridge space for you to do your own meals.’
Ooh, didn’t that pique her interest in what sort of meals he cooked. ‘Let me guess, your main dish is beef slapped onto the barbecue to sandwich between bread and dead horse. The stockman’s staple.’
He tossed one of those grins over his shoulder, with that glimmer in his eyes. It was an attractive look on the guy. It matched his confident, strong stride as he steered the trolley loaded with boxes down the corridor.
The house was simple—an open-plan lounge and kitchen in one, bigger than she expected, and surprisingly… fresh.
There was no peeling paint. No motorbike in the lounge. Not even a crusty boot print on the tiles.
How is this the same man with the shed full of chaos, who lived in a house that may just pass a rental inspection?
It had a modern feel she hadn’t anticipated. And it was neat, too. Besides a few fishing reels stacked on the table like decorations, that was it. No dishes rested in the sink. No half-eaten sandwich was left on the bench. There wasn’t even a dirty coffee mug in sight.
She wasn’t sure whether to be impressed… or suspicious.
Did he clean up because she was moving in? Or maybe he lived like this. Which, somehow, felt weirder when the guy usually wore a uniform that looked like he’d just picked it up off the floor.
He opened a door behind the kitchen and flicked on a light. ‘This is the pantry, or as Luke calls it the butler’s pantry. You’d know all about that stuff, eh, Montrose?’
She frowned at his teasing smirk, turning to face the large windows that gave a stunning view of the surrounding land, and the privacy that came with it. How she’d missed that while living in the pub. ‘Are you a farmer?’
‘Nope. I’m a cop. Remember?’
‘Yet you have all this land?’
‘Came with the house.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m a city boy.’
‘Who bought a country house?’
‘This place was a bargain.’
Outside, Porter effortlessly hoisted the boxes against the wall, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing like it was nothing.
His muscles were… bigger than she’d expected. And so well-defined.
She’d never seen him out of uniform before—never had reason to. But now, in a faded T-shirt that clung in all the right places, Porter didn’t look like some dusty outback cop.
Without the badge, the belt, the official posture—he looked… different.
Solid. Capable. And far too easy on the eye.
That might be a problem.
‘When is your next shift?’
He glanced at his watch as he steered the trolley back to her car. ‘We’ve got enough time to empty your car and work on a list of things to fix the stable. I’m guessing the rest of the boxes are still messing up the police station’s storeroom?’
‘Yeah.’ Was Porter a man who wrote lists, too?
‘I’ll drop them off before I start my patrol this afternoon.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’d use the work vehicle for personal chores?’
He shrugged.
‘And your time on the job for private purposes?’
‘This isn’t the city, Montrose. My boss is flexible with things like that.’
‘I’ve hardly talked to Senior Sergeant Moore.’ He had the biggest bodybuilder arms she’d ever seen on a police officer, which was intimidating enough, but he was also the OIC of Elsie Creek Station.
Porter chuckled as he loaded up two more boxes onto the trolley, closing the back of her car.
‘What’s so funny?’ She grabbed her large toiletries bag from the front seat. Finally, a home for her hairdryer and her pink stockman’s hat. But Porter’s laugh irritated her so much she slammed her car’s passenger door harder than needed.
‘That pink stockman’s hat, and you calling Marcus by his formal title? How many times has he told you to call him Marcus, or Sarge?’
‘Like you keep telling people you’re a senior constable, and they keep calling you Policeman Porter.’
He glared at her.
Ooh, touchy.
‘It’s just a sign of respect. The OIC worked hard for that rank.’ Like she hoped to earn one day.
‘Is that why you call Finn, sir, and he calls you Constable all the time? Finn only does that with you, and not with me or Tanisha.’
‘Um…’ She dropped her head as the heat brushed over her cheeks.
‘Well, now I’ve gotta hear this.’ He folded his arms over his chest, casually leaning his hip against her pile of boxes.
The problem was… those jeans looked way too good on him.
And his T-shirt—well, it wasn’t helping. Not the way it stretched across his biceps, and chesty bits. Did Porter work out?
‘None of your business.’
‘Deadset.’ He stood taller, and with the arched brow it was annoying. ‘How about we make a deal that while we share the same living space there is to be no BS, no games, and no secrets.’
‘You’re a housemate, not my BFF.’
‘Do you have any friends, Montrose?’
She shot him a look like he’d just asked if she socialised with livestock. ‘Do you?’
‘Yeah. Plenty. And a best mate just down the track.’
Oh, great. Bring on the chest-pounding, beer-sculling bogan parade. Maybe she should’ve stayed at the pub. ‘Who?’
‘Luke Bennett. Firefighter and flower farmer. You’d know if you’d bothered to meet some of the locals and actually hold a conversation that didn’t involve police interrogation tactics.
’ Using the sole of his boot, he steadied the trolley before leaning it back to drag the load across the dirt to the back verandah.
‘I’m not—’
‘Untouchable? Cold? Too fancy for an old shed like those stables, and this simple country house?’ Porter smirked, with an easy confidence to his gait as he walked her boxes to the house. ‘Face it, Montrose, you’re a snob.’
‘Am not.’
‘Oh, yes, you are. I bet you were picturing some flash stables with polished wood, brass nameplates, and someone on hand to muck out the stalls for you.’ He gave her a once-over, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
‘This place might not be up to your high-society standards, but it’s got four walls, a roof, and doors. What more could a princess want?’
‘Hey!’ Her words echoed across the yard. ‘Are you saying you don’t want me to move in?’
Porter added the boxes to the pile, his expression unreadable. ‘Sure. If we’re being honest, part of me says no. Big time.’
‘Why?’ She hadn’t realised her hesitation was that obvious—especially when this whole move was for a horse she hadn’t even meant to buy.
‘Because you’re just you.’ He glanced her way, one brow lifting like the answer was obvious. ‘And because the last female who came here broke my heart. So yeah, I have this one rule.’
‘What’s that?’ Did someone like Porter have a list of personal rules, like she did?
‘Hmph.’ He turned away from her.
Instinctively, she reached for his arm, surprised how solid it felt under her fingers. ‘I’m being serious. I live by rules… I have a Not-to-Love list.’
He became still and didn’t say a word. Not one smug response. Just that flicker of tension through his shoulders, as he contemplated her for a moment.
‘What is your rule?’ she asked again.
‘Never fall in love with someone who could never love you back…’ His voice was cold, even his stance was stern like steel, as if bracing against the sting of his past. ‘In the end, after chasing love and not getting anywhere… I decided to choose me first.’
‘I get it.’ Oh, boy, did she get it.
Porter wasn’t looking for anything, just like her.
He may just be the perfect housemate—a cop who understood her job, who wasn’t looking for any romantic entanglements, and he had a stable.
Which meant she needed to make peace with him, because she needed this too. ‘The reason Finn calls me Constable is because I asked him to.’
‘Why?’
‘Because when I begged him to take me on as part of his team…’ And she had begged. Not just asked. Not applied. Begged. It was something she’d never done before.
‘Finn still said no.’ Brutally. And bluntly, Finn—the man who didn’t waste time on words, or niceties—had shot her hopes into a gazillion microscopic pieces with one word: no.
It was tragic.
‘Is that because you’re a…’
‘A young, single female. Finn wanted another guy, as we were on the road for a while. Someone with more stockman’s experience.’
‘And you have?’
‘Sheep station experience. The management side. And horses—not stockhorses, but polo, equestrian, cross-country, showjumping. Not stock camps and cattle drafts, but the kind of events where women wear frocks and fascinators instead of bulldust and boots. Where they carry champagne flutes, not beer cans. And where royalty might show up, and no one flinches.’ She folded her arms, jaw set as she lifted her chin, meeting Porter’s look like a challenge.
Of course he arched an eyebrow. Again.
‘But you’re a cop, too, Montrose. I know Finn relies on you heavily for the legal side of things, because Craig and Stone aren’t cops.’
‘I’ve only been a constable a few years on general duties.
I did get to spend six months with the South Australia Police Equestrian Division, which I thought was my dream job, but instead I was basically just a stablehand in a uniform.
’ Delegated the lowest role to scrub boots and shovel manure to prove she could be part of something.
‘Why?’ Porter asked.
‘Because my supervisor didn’t like me. Said I had to earn my stripes first.’ She huffed, squaring up her shoulders. She didn’t want to tell him that her old sergeant held a grudge against her because of her family’s name. He’d actually told her so, and she’d never stuck around to find out why.
‘But I know my horses. And growing up on a sheep station, I’ve dealt with shearers, stock agents, and auctions. I’ve got a licence to drive trucks, tractors, forklifts—and have been driving them since I was a kid.’
‘Homeschooling? Like most of the kids out here?’
‘Um… A governess, then boarding school.’
‘I bet you went to the best in the country.’
She shrugged as she glanced around, taking in the dust and heat pressing down on them. ‘I’m not fragile, Porter. I do have a farming background. It’s just… different up here.’ Rougher. Hotter. More remote than anything she’d ever imagined.
‘And so the snobby attitude comes from private school, and those polo events with the fancy hats and champagne?’ He pointed to her pink stockman’s hat.
‘Can we just stick to one story at a time?’ The hurt in her voice was clearer than she’d intended, echoing along the deep verandah.
That was two stories she didn’t want to share.
He took a step back, hands sliding into his pockets, as his voice dropped considerably. It was almost tender. ‘Sure, Amara.’
He’d actually spoken her name.
It was enough for her to take a deep, calming breath, even if she wanted to puke from sharing too much already. But it also felt silly as she explained, ‘I told Finn that if he called me Constable all the time, it would keep that level of professionalism, and I would call him sir.’
Porter tilted his head. ‘Is that to stop tongues wagging over Finn having a young female as his offsider?’
‘And Finn said he would not be my babysitter—especially on the road.’
‘Ha!’
She scowled at him. Because she had been playing the role of Finn’s babysitter these past few weeks.
‘So…’ Remembering to play nice, she gave a meek shoulder shrug. ‘Did it work? Having Finn call me Constable?’
Porter gazed up at the sky, hands on hips, as if pondering the world’s problems. His profile was strong, manly, with a little shade from not shaving along his jaw.
His hair—clipped short, yet somehow messy on top—suited his whole casual persona, which was irritatingly charming, and somewhat attractive.
Just not to her.
Then he shared that lazy smile, while locking those eyes on her, giving the impression that perhaps he was a lot smarter than she’d realised. ‘I believe it has.’
‘Good.’ She gave him a curt nod, forcing down the growing pull she felt for this guy.
He’d already failed three points on her Not-to-Love List, plus she worked with him—and she was only here for the horse.
She did not need to complicate things.
Porter placed her last box down by the wall. ‘So, how about we make a start fixing up those stables?’
And for the first time, she started to believe this housing arrangement might actually work. And smiled at him. ‘I’d like that very much.’