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.
What else could she add?
She tapped her pen against her lips, her eyes roaming the room for inspiration, until they landed on the coffee mug drying by the sink.Chunky.Touristy.Made in China.One of at least a dozen others—all from Speedway events, dating back fifteen years.Maybe more.
She knew nothing about Speedway, except that it was a car-racing thing in the dirt.Right?
Which suddenly made perfect sense.Of course Porter would have a thing for fast cars.After all, he’d just renovated a shed for all his mechanical toys, like a proper rev-head who was just missing the mullet and a beer-stained blue singlet.
She smirked, adding to her list:
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?)
Rule #4: Respect the hat collection.(Yes, my hats.No, you can’t wear them.)
Porter had already made a few remarks about her pink stockman’s hat, and she knew more were coming.
But she’d claimed her space.
The bright pink stockman’s hat now had a home—hanging proudly on the vacant hook along the bare wall that ran from the kitchen to the main living area, where it added a pop of colour to the room.Bright, bold, and impossible to ignore.
But for how long?
Rule #5: Hands off my chocolate stash.(This is not a drill.Theft will be severely punished to the full extent of the law.)
Porter already hogged all the prime fridge space for his ridiculously organised meal prep system—but her chocolate supply.Non-negotiable.
She had it safely tucked away on her designated shelf, where it would remain untouched.
Well, it’d better remain untouched.
And if Porter even so much as breathed near her emergency stash, he’d soon learn all about her police training, which included advanced interrogation techniques.And she knew how to beat up men—a lesson learned from her days on the station, long before she put on the uniform.A skill her father decided she needed to have before he lost the fight that mattered the most.
It was enough to sober her up, stepping back from the list.
Was she flirting?Or just teasing?
She couldn’t tell.
What she knew was she needed to keep this strictly platonic.Even if Porter’s kiss had been better than it had any right to be—better than a slow sip of hot chocolate on a cold winter’s night.Better than the thrill of a fast gallop over open country.And yet, here she was, still thinking about it almost a week later.
She clicked the pen again and wrote out the next rule:
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!!
She paused, tapping the pen against the page, then grinned, feeling the satisfaction of adding that extra exclamation mark, to show she wasn’t compromising on that one at all.
Sitting back, she let herself enjoy the moment—the quiet, the warmth of her hot chocolate, the silly satisfaction of writing rules that Porter would break the first chance he got.
See?She knew how to have fun.
Maybe this housemate situation wouldn’t be so bad.
Especially when she had a horse to ride in the morning, a comfy bed waiting, and a house that no longer smelled like a brewery or echoed with Cold Chisel and old country rock.Tonight, the silence was a comfort.And for once, she wasn’t overthinking the future.
After attaching the list to the fridge door, she switched off the kitchen light and padded down the hallway, pausing just long enough to murmur, ‘Night, Porter.’
He was out on patrol.But still—she smiled as she closed the door behind her.
