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.
