Chapter 8
Eight
Porter shoved open the side door of the large living room and kicked off his boots with a tired grunt. He’d just pulled a night shift, running on caffeine and habit, so instead of unpacking his new man cave, all he wanted was a cold beer, a shower, and a few hours of shut-eye.
At least that was the plan.
Three days. That’s how long he’d managed to avoid the woman living under the same roof. Time spent fixing up her stables during the day, while dodging his new housemate like it was a tactical operation.
Checking that the hallway door was still closed to not disturb his housemate, he flicked on the kitchen light.
At the fridge he cracked a coldie and took a few deep mouthfuls, then started unpacking his workbag and emptying his pockets onto the kitchen counter—phone, notebook, pen, half-dead torch—then went to chuck out his food wrappers.
That’s when he saw it.
A crumpled bit of paper, lying beside the bin.
Normally, he wouldn’t care and would’ve kicked it in with the rest. But the neat script was unmistakable. Sharp. Neat. Too tidy to be anyone else’s…
But Amara’s.
He’d seen enough of her handwriting at the police station to recognise it.
Curiosity won, and because he was a nosy prick—which came with being a cop—he straightened it out, and grinned when he spotted the title:
The Not-to-Love List
‘Hello…’ Porter leaned against the fridge, beer in one hand, the paper in the other. Simple layout. Neat handwriting. No hearts or swirls, just bullet points and brutal clarity—very Amara.
He should have thrown it in the bin.
Hmm…
Instead, he took another sip of his beer and decided to dissect it—Montrose style.
RULE #1?: Not too good-looking.
Porter squinted at the words, then murmured to the empty room. ‘So… average at best? … Brutal.’
He took another sip of his beer.
‘Guess that rules out anyone with a sixpack and a modelling contract. But good news for the rest of us blue-collar battlers.’
RULE #2: No game playing: say what you mean and mean what you say.
He nodded, ticking an invisible box in the air. ‘Fair. Boring, but fair.’
RULE #3: No secrets: no hidden past, and no cryptic text messages from old friends late at night.
Porter smirked. ‘Right, so no burner phones or classified cases? Well, that’s me out.’
RULE #4: Must be financially independent: no more men who only want in on the Montrose bank account.
Porter let out a low whistle. ‘Deadset, how rich are you, Montrose?’
RULE #5: No one who wants me to change. If he doesn’t like me the way I am, he’s not the one.
Taking a slow swig of beer, he muttered, ‘I hear you, sister,’ giving another approving nod to her list.
RULE #6: No cowboys, stockmen, or rodeo riders: because of Cowboy Craig—too much flirting drama. And Stone is just a high-flying cowboy!
Porter arched a brow. ‘No stockmen? Bit limiting, isn’t it, Montrose?’ Considering she worked in the middle of cattle country.
Even knowing this might come back to bite him, he did it anyway—laid the list on the countertop, plucked up his pen, and scribbled under rule six:
What about lawmen? Asking for a friend.
Onwards and down the page he went to her next rule:
RULE #7: No commitment-phobes: if you’re not ready to stay, don’t waste my time.
Porter shrugged. ‘Reasonable. Boring, but reasonable. Next…’
RULE #8: No one who’s married to his job.
Porter snorted, scribbling out his response:
So, you’re out too, then?
‘Next!’
Rule #9: Must be responsible & clean: if his shirt looks like he’s slept in it, automatic disqualification.
Porter glanced down at his wrinkled uniform, dust-covered from helping an elderly couple dig out their bogged ute. He wiped at it half-heartedly. ‘Guess I’m out twice then.’
Rule #10: No one who thinks love is just an option: it’s all in, or not at all.
Porter tapped the pen against the paper. ‘Didn’t she already say this? Not only picky but repetitive. Another classic princess move.’
Scoffing, he leaned back against the counter, beer in one hand, pen in the other—then grinned.
And the grin just got bigger.
Again, he peered around the kitchen, checking the closed hallway door.
He took another sip of his beer.
Clicked his pen.
Then paused.
She might not find it funny.
Amara was already struggling with Stone’s jabs—and Stone’s sense of humour was damn near identical to his.
Still…
He smirked to himself.
Maybe this would help her loosen up. Or at the very least, earn him an eye roll strong enough to crack the floor tiles.
What was the harm, yeah?
He leaned over the counter, and started adding his own items:
Must love crime reports and cold pizza.
Must accept that the dog rides shotgun.
Passenger princess(es) must open and close all gates. (Excluding said dog.)
Must not freak out if I show up covered in cattle muck and fish guts from a boys’ hunting weekend filled with a story or two to share.
Satisfied, he held it up like it was state evidence.
Maybe he should slip it in his back pocket for later, in case she got annoying.
No, it needed to be seen.
So he straightened the list and pinned it dead centre on the fridge.
Then, just for maximum irritation impact, he lowered it to the exact eye level—Amara’s eye level—for her to spot first thing in the morning. No chance she’d miss it now.
Job done.
He flicked off the light, smirking to himself as he headed to his room.
Now, all he had to do was wait for the fireworks.
Or maybe—just maybe—she’d finally laugh.