A country band played in the corner while couples mingled, dressed in a mix of ballgowns, cocktail dresses, and plenty of stockmen in suits and hats.
Thankfully, there were plenty of blokes like Porter who weren’t built for this.They didn’t wear suits unless they had to.Porter took some comfort from those men tugging at their collars and ties like he was.
But hey, he’d shown up—even if it was for work.
His first ball, too.And here he was, adjusting the cuffs of an Armani suit that fit like it was made for him.
But that was the problem—it wasn’t him.
Not the bloke who lived in boots that had never seen polish, who spent more time patrolling outback highways in a policeman’s uniform than walking into candlelit wonderlands.
And yet, tonight, none of that mattered.
Not when he had Amara Montrose on his arm—who was simply breathtaking.
He’d wanted to tell her so many times, but his tongue got tied every time he tried.
It didn’t help that she was shooting flames of anger his way that made for a very long and quiet drive to get here.
How long could she hold a grudge for?
But that soft blue ballgown skimmed her curves in ways that had his hands itching to touch the strapless bodice that highlighted her strong yet supple shoulders, the sun-kissed skin, along with the kind of elegance that didn’t need diamonds to shine.
He had honestly never seen a more stunning woman in his life.And he could sure as hell feel all eyes on them, taking notice of Amara like they’d never done before.And how every other bloke in the place was sneaking a second look at her too.Why not, she was a star tonight—his star.
Porter grinned, easy and wide.This date’s mine, boys.Don’t even think about it.
She might have said—repeatedly—that this wasn’t a date, but he knew better.
Still, he had promised to keep her rules.
Didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun, right?
‘Glowing under fairy lights, in a sparkly ballgown and tiara?You sure this isn’t your natural habitat, Montrose?’
He steered her through the crowd with his hand placed on the small of her back, allowing his fingers to gently brush over the silky fabric.It was softer than he’d expected, and incredibly delicate, like it didn’t belong in a place where boots scuffed wooden floors and beer soaked into the dirt.
She shot him a glare, but it didn’t quite land, not with the pink dusting across her cheeks.‘If you dare call me Cinderella, I will kick you in the shins.’
His slow grin widened, and filled with the kind of trouble that’d probably earn him a slap in the face one day—just not today, he hoped.‘Wouldn’t dream of it.More like… the queen of a small, overly organised kingdom that is micromanaged to the minute with lists about things she’s not allowed to feel.’
Her fingers tightened on his arm.
Ah, there it was.
She still wasn’t over finding his fridge note, the little edits he’d made to her so-called House Rules list.Come on, she started that game.
‘And here I was thinking you’d forgotten about that list.’
‘Lists, Montrose.Listsss.’ He hissed with his voice dropping lower, just for her.‘Though I have been considering writing my own.’
Her glare sharpened.‘Porter—’
‘For example,Rule #1: No dating colleagues.’ He leaned in slightly, as if reading an invisible note.‘Amendment: Unless he’s ridiculously charming and good-looking.’
She glared at him.‘You are insufferable.I bet you think you’re funny,’ she muttered under her breath as they neared their table where the rest of the Stock Squad were waiting with their partners.
‘I haven’t heard you deny that I’m ridiculously charming and good-looking.Or that I made you come so hard and so long, that you forgot to breathe.’
