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!!
Define ‘flirting.’Asking for a friend.
But then he’d added to the list!The nerve of him.
HOUSE RULE #7: No making lists while sleep deprived.Especially lists about who they can and can’t love!!!Xx
The three exclamation marks and the kiss-kiss were the ultimate insult.
Her cheeks burned, and her pulse flared.
The worst part?She’d started this damn list war.And now Porter was winning.
She groaned, slumping against the counter just as he strolled in—suited up and entirely too pleased with himself, as that navy jacket hugged him in all the right places.
And that faint trace of musky cologne trailing behind him?It should’ve come with a label:Uncalled for.Warm.Earthy.Distracting.And unfair.
It made arguing—difficult.
Fighting?Pointless.
Focus.
This was not the time to be ogling a rev-head patrolman who gave smart-arse answers to serious questions.
They had nothing in common—they had different backgrounds, different goals, different everything.
He was all horsepower, hunting, high-speed pursuits, and cheeky one-liners.
She was rosters, rules, and five-year plans.
Yet, Porter didn’t just press her buttons—he was rewiring the panel, unravelling her rules one frayed fuse at a time.He had her whole system sparking.
And yet…
He’d once spent hours fixing the busted gate in her stable, without being asked.
And he’d doubled up her stash of chocolate—the hard-to-find varieties, too.
And that suit?Unfair.
Come on, focus now.This was not the time for a meltdown—this was work.
‘You ready, Montrose?’Porter leaned against the counter.‘You look like you’ve seen something shocking.’
She glared at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
‘We’ll take my car.You drive.’She tossed him her car keys.
He caught them easily, one brow lifting, with that devil-may-care smile working far too well in that suit.
Not gonna happen.
She smoothed down the front of her dress, more for composure than wrinkles.‘Remember, Porter, we have a job to do.This is not a date.’
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.
