‘So… a fake date, then.’Porter gave that irritating, self-satisfied grin that made her want to throw something at him.
‘Hope you’ve got a dress, Montrose.I can’t be seen with just anyone, you know.’With a wink, he slung his utility belt over his shoulder like some kind of outback James Bond and headed for the back door.‘We can argue about it when I come back.’
‘Where are you going?’she snapped out.
‘To sleep.I’m back on night shift later.’
Sleep?!
Not when she needed to talk him out of this.
Porter didn’t own a suit.The rev-head probably thought a new pair of thongs were formal wear.So, the man would need elocution lessons, a crash course in manners, and possibly a handler to get through the Ironbark Ball without causing a scene.
And Finn was sendingherwithhim?
Hell’s bells, this was going to be a disaster in cufflinks.
Twenty-three
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, competing with the rattle of the old bar fridge and the tick of the desk fan stirring the stale office air.It smelled like the inside of a sun-baked filing cabinet—warm ink, dry paper, and the faint edge of whatever deodorant or air freshener Craig had generously used, that had given up by lunchtime.
Amara rubbed her eyes as she flicked through yet another stack of sale records, trying to find the thread that would lead back to her stolen horse.
The back door creaked open and a set of heavy boots with a familiar gait strolled down the corridor.
Porter.
She glanced at the wall clock.It was almost eleven.Was he just starting night shift?When he’d pulled a double shift earlier today.
He stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest.Messy uniform, tired eyes, with that smirk that told her he wasn’t leaving just yet.
‘You know, Montrose, most sane people go home at some point.’
‘What’s your excuse?’
‘I’m on shift.You?’Porter came closer to peer at her desk, his eyes scanning the paperwork.
‘I’m busy.’
‘Go home.Unless you’re planning to read double, or to cross that white line, and end up kissing a tree—go.Now.’He flicked off her desk lamp.
‘Hey!You’re not the boss of me.When I should be asking you that?’
‘I slept.Got a solid six in.’He headed out into the corridor.‘Look, I get why you want to keep going, but you’re running on fumes… So, I’ve got an idea.’
‘I’m not in the mood, Porter.’
There it was, that casual glance over his shoulder, that infuriating grin, like pushing her buttons was a hobby he’d majored in.
‘Hey, you want a bet?’
Scooping up her empty coffee cup, she followed, expecting him to head left for the muster room—instead, he went right for the cells.‘What bet?What are you doing?’She left her cup resting on the side bench and followed.
‘If I can figure out where your horse went before you do, you owe me a beer on our so-called date.’He cracked open a tall cupboard and grabbed a handful of thick blankets.
Her unimpressed laugh echoed down the corridor.‘If you weren’t half-dead on your feet, I’d almost take that bet.’
‘I’m not over-tired, and I’m definitely not a walking zombie.’Porter stepped in close, his voice dipping low enough to make her pulse trip.‘I told you, I slept.You?’
