Chapter Twenty-five
Twenty-five
The rustic outback pub’s beer garden had been transformed into a fine-dining wonderland.
Glowing under flickering candlelight, long linen-covered tables spread across the lawns.
While delicate fairy lights looped from the trees, to sparkle the way spider webs did in the early morning dew, with a ceiling of stars as the backdrop.
A country band played in the corner while couples mingled, dressed in a mix of ballgowns, cocktail dresses, and plenty of stockmen in suits and hats.
Thankfully, there were plenty of blokes like Porter who weren’t built for this. They didn’t wear suits unless they had to. Porter took some comfort from those men tugging at their collars and ties like he was.
But hey, he’d shown up—even if it was for work.
His first ball, too. And here he was, adjusting the cuffs of an Armani suit that fit like it was made for him.
But that was the problem—it wasn’t him.
Not the bloke who lived in boots that had never seen polish, who spent more time patrolling outback highways in a policeman’s uniform than walking into candlelit wonderlands.
And yet, tonight, none of that mattered.
Not when he had Amara Montrose on his arm—who was simply breathtaking.
He’d wanted to tell her so many times, but his tongue got tied every time he tried.
It didn’t help that she was shooting flames of anger his way that made for a very long and quiet drive to get here.
How long could she hold a grudge for?
But that soft blue ballgown skimmed her curves in ways that had his hands itching to touch the strapless bodice that highlighted her strong yet supple shoulders, the sun-kissed skin, along with the kind of elegance that didn’t need diamonds to shine.
He had honestly never seen a more stunning woman in his life. And he could sure as hell feel all eyes on them, taking notice of Amara like they’d never done before. And how every other bloke in the place was sneaking a second look at her too. Why not, she was a star tonight—his star.
Porter grinned, easy and wide. This date’s mine, boys. Don’t even think about it.
She might have said—repeatedly—that this wasn’t a date, but he knew better.
Still, he had promised to keep her rules.
Didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun, right?
‘Glowing under fairy lights, in a sparkly ballgown and tiara? You sure this isn’t your natural habitat, Montrose?’
He steered her through the crowd with his hand placed on the small of her back, allowing his fingers to gently brush over the silky fabric. It was softer than he’d expected, and incredibly delicate, like it didn’t belong in a place where boots scuffed wooden floors and beer soaked into the dirt.
She shot him a glare, but it didn’t quite land, not with the pink dusting across her cheeks. ‘If you dare call me Cinderella, I will kick you in the shins.’
His slow grin widened, and filled with the kind of trouble that’d probably earn him a slap in the face one day—just not today, he hoped.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it. More like… the queen of a small, overly organised kingdom that is micromanaged to the minute with lists about things she’s not allowed to feel. ’
Her fingers tightened on his arm.
Ah, there it was.
She still wasn’t over finding his fridge note, the little edits he’d made to her so-called House Rules list. Come on, she started that game.
‘And here I was thinking you’d forgotten about that list.’
‘Lists, Montrose. Listsss.’ He hissed with his voice dropping lower, just for her. ‘Though I have been considering writing my own.’
Her glare sharpened. ‘Porter—’
‘For example, Rule #1: No dating colleagues.’ He leaned in slightly, as if reading an invisible note. ‘Amendment: Unless he’s ridiculously charming and good-looking.’
She glared at him. ‘You are insufferable. I bet you think you’re funny,’ she muttered under her breath as they neared their table where the rest of the Stock Squad were waiting with their partners.
‘I haven’t heard you deny that I’m ridiculously charming and good-looking. Or that I made you come so hard and so long, that you forgot to breathe.’
She suddenly stopped still. ‘Stop it. Please…’
Her pleading tone made him pause as he looked around the gathered crowd. This wasn’t the time or the place.
But he also felt the shift… It wasn’t him who Amara was fighting—not the banter, not the rules on some damn list. It was this. The ball.
The atmosphere had brought a change in her.
If he had to hazard a guess, it was the weight of this kind of world where she’d once belonged.
What kind of woman had a ballgown tucked away in a box, with a matching bag, shoes, and tiara? Not some simple farmer’s daughter, or some outback cop, that’s for sure.
No, this ball was a reminder that Amara was someone who’d been raised among the elites.
While he grew up on footy, meat pies, and speedway—she was playing polo, nicknamed the sport of kings.
She played on horses worth more than his car, where the riders weren’t just competitors, but part of a world where family names carried weight, along with a load of dollar signs behind them.
And Amara? She’d been one of them.
Now, in this setting, where there might be people who knew the Montrose name and history, she was on guard. Shoulders squared, posture too perfect, with a look in her eyes that said she was bracing for something.
Porter adjusted his grip on her arm, firming his touch just enough to remind her she wasn’t alone in this. He wasn’t some slick guy trying to drag her back into a world she’d left behind—he was her partner tonight. And damn if he wasn’t going to make her feel at ease as the perfect gentleman.
As they reached the table, he pulled out her chair, the way he’d seen done a hundred times by men in finer suits than his.
But he’d never pretended to be like them. Not when he was just Porter.
Amara stiffly settled into her seat. Her eyes flickered to his for the briefest moment, but it was enough to decide—date or not—he was proud to just be beside her. Even if she only ever saw him as the blue-collar cop, when she deserved more.
Then, across the room, he saw her…
Tess.
The long-legged seductress in a slinky dress and a knowing smirk. The woman he’d once made a fool of himself over—the one who’d nearly cost him his job, and all his self-respect.
A cold weight settled in his gut as that familiar mantra rose against the burn in his chest:
His one and only rule: Never fall in love with someone who could never love you back.
He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
And brother, didn’t it help him flick that switch and shut it all down now, because Amara was right—this wasn’t a date.
No way was he going to make that mistake again.
No siree.
Not when he’d finally got his life back on track, just the way he liked it. The job, the house, the hunting and fishing weekends with good friends. Why put all that hard work in jeopardy, especially over a woman who had already said no.
She had her rules.
He had his. Built from the wreckage—where breaking them once had left him clawing his way back to who he was. And he’d be damned if he’d ever risk that again.