Chapter Twenty-four
Twenty-four
Amara hadn’t just crossed the line. She’d pole-vaulted over it, backwards, and landed in a police cell with her housemate.
At work.
In a prison cell.
With Senior Constable Logan Porter.
And today? She’d been dodging him like her job depended on it. Barricading herself in the office, doing everything short of physically stapling her thoughts to her paperwork just to stop them circling back to him. His voice. His mouth. His everything.
They weren’t even compatible.
They had nothing in common except the job. And the house. And now, apparently, that encounter in the cells.
This ball tonight? It wasn’t a ball. It was surveillance. Work. Not a date.
Definitely not a date.
She was fine. Totally fine. And if she repeated that enough, maybe she’d believe it.
But standing in front of her bedroom mirror, wearing her light blue ballgown, Amara felt like she was staring at a stranger.
She smoothed her hands over the bodice, adjusting the fit, admiring the way the fabric cinched at her waist and accentuated her curves, with her breasts pushed up just enough to make her hesitate.
The colour softened her, made her look… different. Less like Officer Montrose, and more like someone from a life she’d left behind.
The delicate tiara caught the light to create a subtle shimmer in her loose hair—the kind of style no one in Elsie Creek had ever seen her wear.
She hadn’t bought this dress for tonight. It had been tucked away in a box, saved for another event that never happened. A reminder of that old version of herself that had once believed in fairytales, polished nights, and in promises from a fiancé that had never lasted.
And tonight? No. This wasn’t a date. It was work.
No matter what Porter thought.
With one last twirl before the mirror, completing her final inspection, she headed down the corridor.
Only to pause.
She hadn’t meant to look.
But in the living room stood Porter, sliding one arm into the sleeve of a crisp white dress shirt, the fabric clinging to the broad muscles of his back before he pulled it forward, his fingers making quick work of the buttons.
Her mouth went dry.
He was half-dressed, wearing nothing but a pair of fitted black briefs—Calvin Kleins, hugging him in ways she had no business noticing.
Amara swallowed hard. She’d seen him in uniform, in dusty work shirts, sweat-soaked under the outback sun. And shirtless—the memory way too crisp that she clutched the base of her throat like it might help her breathe again, or at least control her heat.
But this? This was something else. It was surprisingly sexy watching a man who never did formal, stepping into a suit that wasn’t just any suit—
It was Armani.
The trousers, sharp and tailored, skimmed his hips as he pulled them up, securing them with a sleek leather belt. The white shirt framed his chest, a far cry from his usual thrown-together, just-got-out-of-bed look.
This was Porter in a suit.
And somehow it made the world tilt.
Balling her fists into the sides of her many layered skirts, she tried to count backwards in her head, to rein in some self-control.
She had carefully worked out her plan for tonight, the conversations already practised in her head—all to keep Porter at arm’s length. After all, this wasn’t a date.
Then he caught her staring.
A slow grin spread across his face as he adjusted his cufflinks. ‘Didn’t peg you to be the kind to gawk, Montrose.’
‘I’m not. I’m waiting for you.’ She turned to the kitchen to focus on something other than Porter, and the memory of the last time they were alone together.
For her own sanity, she should have moved back to her old room at the pub.
Turning to the fridge to grab some cold water, her eyes landed on a piece of paper. Another fridge note, stuck right at her eye-level:
THE HOUSE RULES
That list she’d scrawled out a few nights back, before the horse, and everything else spiralled. It had gone missing, and with everything else going on, she’d almost forgotten it existed.
Porter hadn’t just remembered, though. No, he’d hijacked the list, adding his own notes in that insufferable, overconfident scrawl of his—half handwriting, half graffiti, all smug, and somehow exactly him.
Rule #1: No stealing coffee and cocoa rations. (Porter, this means you.)
Porter had scribbled underneath it:
Fine print is needed for this clause: Emergency caffeine situations are excluded.
Rule #2: No tracking dirt through the house. (Even if it’s just a little red dust.) You’re a simple guy and this is a simple rule—leave your boots at the door. And I’ll agree to set up my amazing automatic robot vacuum to do the floors while sleeping.
Again, Porter’s addition beneath in his barely-legible scrawl:
Rule #2(b): Exceptions granted for emergencies, snake sightings, unexpected rodeos, or when beer is at risk.
(If said vacuum starts judging me? I’m tracking in double the dust.)
Rule #3: Do we really need 652,387 mismatched mugs in the kitchen? This is a house, not a pit lane canteen. I didn’t realise we were running a Speedway memorabilia museum. (Do they at least come with a sponsorship deal?)
All championship winners get trophies. Mine just happen to hold coffee.
Rule #4: Respect the hat collection. (Yes, my hats. No, you can’t wear them.)
Counter-offer: Hats become communal property if left in common areas. You’re just lucky pink isn’t my colour.
She side-glanced the wall where her pink stockman’s hat hung, untouched. But it did nothing to soothe her temper due to the arrogance of this cretin.
Yet, she had to read the rest:
Rule #5: Hands off my chocolate stash. (This is not a drill. Theft will be severely punished to the full extent of the law.)
As acting mayor of this household (me), I reserve the right to collect a chocolate tax—payable immediately—whenever a housemate’s sass exceeds safe levels. Especially from housemates who never bend the rules.
Rule #6: No flirting with housemates. Friends and work colleagues only. You have your job, I have mine, we can be professionals. (Because I am absolutely not falling for that, Porter.) No more kissing!!
Define ‘flirting.’ Asking for a friend.
But then he’d added to the list! The nerve of him.
HOUSE RULE #7: No making lists while sleep deprived. Especially lists about who they can and can’t love!!! Xx
The three exclamation marks and the kiss-kiss were the ultimate insult.
Her cheeks burned, and her pulse flared.
The worst part? She’d started this damn list war. And now Porter was winning.
She groaned, slumping against the counter just as he strolled in—suited up and entirely too pleased with himself, as that navy jacket hugged him in all the right places.
And that faint trace of musky cologne trailing behind him? It should’ve come with a label: Uncalled for. Warm. Earthy. Distracting. And unfair.
It made arguing—difficult.
Fighting? Pointless.
Focus.
This was not the time to be ogling a rev-head patrolman who gave smart-arse answers to serious questions.
They had nothing in common—they had different backgrounds, different goals, different everything.
He was all horsepower, hunting, high-speed pursuits, and cheeky one-liners.
She was rosters, rules, and five-year plans.
Yet, Porter didn’t just press her buttons—he was rewiring the panel, unravelling her rules one frayed fuse at a time. He had her whole system sparking.
And yet…
He’d once spent hours fixing the busted gate in her stable, without being asked.
And he’d doubled up her stash of chocolate—the hard-to-find varieties, too.
And that suit? Unfair.
Come on, focus now. This was not the time for a meltdown—this was work.
‘You ready, Montrose?’ Porter leaned against the counter. ‘You look like you’ve seen something shocking.’
She glared at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
‘We’ll take my car. You drive.’ She tossed him her car keys.
He caught them easily, one brow lifting, with that devil-may-care smile working far too well in that suit.
Not gonna happen.
She smoothed down the front of her dress, more for composure than wrinkles. ‘Remember, Porter, we have a job to do. This is not a date.’