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 youConstableall 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 haveanyfriends, 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 andactuallyhold 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.
