Can't Buy Me Love: Romantic Comedy (Sinclair Sisters Trilogy Book 3)

by Janet Elizabeth Henderson

  “Never mind,” Dougal said. Obviously deciding it wasn’t worth getting into. “Mr. Thompson called to say he’s run out of toilet paper.”

  “Again?” What the hell did he do with it?

  “Could you drop some off to his room? I’d have one of the waitresses run up there, but they’re busy.” And why use a waitress when he had a hotel manager to boss around?

  Actually, now that she thought about it, her job wasn’t managing anything. Really, she was Dougal’s hotel slave. No—she looked down at her sweatshirt—tonight she was his hotel elf. She blinked. She was bloody Dobby. And suddenly, she desperately missed her sister Donna, because she was the only one who’d get that joke.

  “Anything else?” she said to Dougal, who was still standing there as if waiting for something. She didn’t know what.

  “No. Nothing. Except, did you make sure the Benson Security people are monitoring the cameras? Tonight seems a ripe night for theft.”

  “Logan rigged up a signal booster, so that someone in their office can watch them.” So was she, as they were still set up in her bedroom. With the current state of the BBC, there was nothing else to watch when she suffered from insomnia.

  “Okay,” Dougal said. “That’s all then.” And she was dismissed.

  As she walked away, she imagined all the ways she could torture the man with the soda gun behind the bar.

  “Ah wouldnae put up wi’ that crap,” someone said as she passed, and Agnes turned to see Betty sitting on a stool, kicking her feet, while she ate a Scotch pie. A Scotch pie that wasn’t on their menu. As usual, the cuboid-shaped woman wore a tartan tent of a dress in, what could only be described as an attractive mud color. There were black boots on her feet and a huge tatty black handbag in her lap.

  Agnes had heard the rumors about that bag. People who got too close to it tended to get stun gunned. So she took a step back. “I’m sorry?” she said.

  “Aye, you should be. You’re letting Dougal walk all over you. It nearly put me off my pie.” Betty waved the pie, sending beef mince flying. “You might as well roll over and let him scratch your belly, same as he does for that mangy dog of his.”

  Well, it turned out there was a limit to the crap she’d take for her job. And the limit was called Betty. Agnes glanced at the crowd in front of the stage. “Have you ever crowd surfed? Because I can make that happen for you.” Although, she wasn’t sure anyone would catch the woman.

  “If you ever want to learn how to stand up for yerself, gimme a call.”

  “Do they have cell coverage in hell?”

  Betty just cackled and carried on eating her pie. Agnes, meanwhile, went off to deliver toilet paper to an old man who spent far too much time in the loo.

  By the time the last bell rang telling the patrons they had one remaining chance to order from the bar before they shut up shop, Agnes was dead on her feet. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed, but as this was the hotel and bar’s biggest weekend of the year, she knew she had to help clean up.

  As customers drifted out, she settled up with the band and helped the waitstaff clear the tables. By just after midnight, they’d tallied the cash, cleaned and shut down the kitchen for the night, and the waitstaff were finishing up the vacuuming.

  “Can you lock up?” Dougal asked, cradling his dog in his arms. “Arnold’s exhausted, and I want to get him home to bed.”

  Agnes stared at him for a moment, waiting to see if he’d notice his hotel manager was exhausted too. He didn’t. “Absolutely, Dougal. Take the dog home. We wouldn’t want him overtired.”

  The sarcasm was lost on him. “True,” he said. And with that, he was gone.

  A few minutes later, the rest of the staff followed him, and Agnes was left alone. She locked the pub doors, turned out the lights, and sat in one of the booths, staring out over the black waters of the loch.

  This had to end. Betty had been right—she was letting Dougal walk all over her. Partly because she knew he didn’t mean to. He was still struggling with giving up any responsibility for his business, and it took time to settle into a new working relationship. And partly because this job was her only chance at having the career she wanted.

  Only, she wasn’t sure she wanted it anymore.

  A noise attracted her attention, and she glanced over to the bar. As though her thoughts had conjured the woman, Betty walked out of the back of the pub and rounded the bar. She pulled over the small stepladder they kept for the staff to reach the liquor on the higher shelf, climbed up, and helped herself to a bottle of Glenfiddich.

  Well, that solved the mystery of the missing whisky.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Agnes snapped.

  The old woman didn’t even startle. She shielded her eyes and peered into the shadows. “I’m getting some whisky.”

  “Please tell me you aren’t secretly paying for it, and Dougal’s just forgotten all about it.”

  “No.” She cackled. “I’m stealing it. Do you want some?” She grabbed two glasses and tottered over to join Agnes.

  Betty seemed so blasé about the whole thing that, for once, Agnes found herself at a loss for words. In the end, she settled on, “Stealing is wrong.” It lacked conviction.

  “Aye, but it’s fun. And that old bastard deserves it. He gets on my last nerve.” She plonked the glasses on the table, unscrewed the bottle cap, and poured them each a drink.

  Agnes considered it for a second before shrugging. What the hell.

  She reached for the glass. “First thing in the morning, I’m telling Dougal you’re the thief, which means he’ll make you pay for this. You sure you want to spend the money?”

  “I’m older than dirt. What the hell am I going to do with it? Save it for my retirement? Drink up, pansy arse, and tell me why you’re still in this crappy job.”

  Tossing back the whisky, Agnes savored the burn as it slid down. She put her glass in front of Betty, who’d climbed into the seat opposite her, and without another word, Betty refilled it.

  “I’m not spilling my guts to you,” she told the town’s resident evil genius. “Where were you hiding?”

  Betty tossed back her own drink and refilled her glass. “There’s a wee cupboard under the stairs. The lock doesn’t work. When the last bell rings, I go in there and have a nap until everybody leaves, then I help myself and go home.”

  “What about the alarm?” There was no way Betty had the code.

  “I switch it off.”

  Well, hell. “And nobody notices it isn’t on when they come in the next morning?”

  “Dougal doesn’t always remember to set it.” Betty’s grin was a terrifying thing.

  “I don’t get it. You obviously have money. The way I hear it, you own half the town, so why don’t you buy your own whisky?”

  “Now where’s the fun in that?” Betty finished her second glass and refilled it. “Hurry up, I’m drinking you under the table here.”

  Agnes refused to be outdrunk by a feral-looking cube of a woman. Although, in the back of her mind, a little voice wondered if she was thinking straight. It questioned whether her lack of sleep and intake of alcohol were impairing her judgment. She ignored the voice and emptied her glass.

  “We need crisps,” she told Betty and headed behind the bar to help herself to several packets of salt and vinegar crisps. Unlike Betty, she left money beside the till to cover her pilfering.

  Agnes tossed the packets onto the table, vaguely noting her glass was full again. “Do you know what annoys me?” she said as she reached for her drink. “This isn’t a hotel management job. It’s only called that. Really, I’m Dougal’s personal assistant, which totally sucks.” She emptied her glass before slamming it on the table, and then she fell on the crisps like a starving dog. One who liked salt and vinegar flavor. She grinned as she chomped. “Potatoes are awesome.”

  “Aye, so is cake. How about we raid the kitchen and get some?”

  Agnes cocked her head at Betty, suddenly wondering
why everyone hated the old woman so much. “I could eat cake. But we have to be very quiet, like tiny mice.”

  They climbed out of the booth and tiptoed through the empty pub to the kitchen out the back. Agnes fought the urge to giggle, as she tiptoed like a cartoon character, lifting each knee ridiculously high with every step she took. She reached for the keypad beside the kitchen door, covering it with her hand. “Don’t look. You can’t know the code is my birthday.”

  “I won’t look. When’s your birthday?”

  “August fifth. I’m going to be thirty-three next year. Do you think that’s old? Why am I asking you when you’re so old you’re practically mummified?” Agnes giggled as she pressed in the code. “Shh!” she hissed at Betty as she held the door open for the old woman.

  Agnes retrieved the carrot cake from the fridge, while Betty raided the freezer, coming out with a massive ham.

  “Put that back,” Agnes said. “We can’t eat it. It’s frozen.”

  “It will defrost,” Betty said, as she tucked it under her arm.

  “Tell me the truth,” Agnes demanded. “Are you stealing the ham?”

  “Aye.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Stealing is wrong,” Agnes said at last.

  “Come on.” Betty headed for the door, carrying her ham. “Let’s get some cake in us.”

  Taking the whole carrot cake, which was damn heavy, Agnes followed. Once they were back in their booth, she put the cake on the table between them. “I forgot forks.”

  “Just use your fingers,” Betty said and grabbed a chunk of cake.

  “That’s unsanitary,” Agnes said as she watched her eat. “We need napkins.” She got up and retrieved some from the bar. They had Santa on them. She held them up for Betty to see. “We can wipe our faces on Dougal.” She beamed.

  Betty grabbed a handful and stuffed them in her bag. “I can think of other places I’d like to wipe with those.”

  “Here’s to crappy jobs.” Agnes lifted her glass.

  “That’s the only kind,” Betty said.

  And they both tossed back their whiskies.

  “Do you know what?” Agnes grabbed a handful of cake. “I hate people.”

  “Welcome to the club,” Betty said around a mouthful of food.

  “I mean, I hate working in a hotel with them. I hate hotels. I hate this job. And there are days when I hate Dougal. Damn, this cake is good.”

  “Dougal is a pain in the arse—you should quit.”

  “I can’t. Otherwise, I won’t get a job in another hotel.” Agnes frowned. “I don’t know why I want a job in another hotel. Do you know why?”

  “Stupidity?”

  Agnes nodded. “Why won’t you sell your land to Dougal so he can build his conference center?” She paused, gazed into the distance, and said, “So they will come…” Then she burst out laughing.

  “Because it’s a bloody stupid idea.” There was cake smeared around Betty’s mouth.

  “Here, have Dougal’s face.” Agnes passed her a napkin.

  “The only reason Dougal wants a conference center is to make himself feel important, and so he can hobnob with the big shots.”

  “That’s a funny sentence.” Agnes grinned.

  “We’d be better off building something fun, like a shooting range. I need to practice with my guns.”

  “You have guns?”

  “Only stun guns. Lake won’t let me have anything else, but maybe if we had a shooting range, I could talk him into letting me loose in it. Bloody Englishman is holding me back.”

  “Men suck.” She thought about it. “Except Logan. I think he might be a good one.”

  “Have another drink. You’re still not thinking clearly.” Betty filled her glass and Agnes drank. Damn, that whisky was smooth.

  “I miss my sisters,” Agnes said. “There’s nobody to boss around here.”

  “It depends who you are. I don’t have any trouble finding people to order around.” Betty’s smile was devilish. “Neither does Dougal. He can boss his manager whenever the need hits him.”

  “I hate this job. I want a job in…somewhere hot. I don’t know where. Just a hot place. Not a cold place. I’m fed up being cold.”

  “Maybe you just need better central heating?”

  They fell into giggles. Well, giggles for Agnes, cackles for Betty.

  “I’ve just figured out who you remind me of,” Agnes said, suddenly serious. “An evil Yoda! Same height, same hair, same green pallor. You could be twins!”

  “I think you’ve had enough whisky.” Betty confiscated the bottle.

  “Did you know there’s a karaoke machine in here?” Agnes said.

  “Aye. I’m brilliant on it. Although nobody appreciates my talent.”

  “I will. Promise. Come on, let’s go sing.”

  They zigzagged their way to the stage, which, for some reason, seemed really far away. Agnes tried to connect the machine to the sound system, but couldn’t figure out how to do it, so they were stuck with only one speaker. It would have to be enough.

  “I’m going first,” she told Betty, as she brought up her song. “Wait. I need my phone for this.”

  She zigzagged back across the pub to get it and, when she returned, Betty was lying flat on her back on the floor. Agnes nudged her with her toe. “Are you dead?”

  “No, I’m resting.”

  “Okay, I’m singing first.” She climbed onto the stage, started her song, and dialed Logan.

  “Agnes?” He sounded sexy when he’d just woken up. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she shouted at the phone. “This one’s for you.”

  And then she launched into her own unique version of Stevie Wonder’s ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You.’

  Chapter 21

  Someone had filled the sunlight with shards of glass that speared through Agnes’ eyeballs and into her brain.

  “Make it stop,” she wailed. But it came out as a hoarse, whispered croak.

  “Good morning,” a cheery male voice said, before Logan’s smiling face appeared in front of her eyes. “Did you have a rough night then?”

  “Why are you torturing me?” Agnes asked. “What have I ever done to you? Just make the pain stop and leave me alone.”

  “Here.” He held out a glass of water. “I’ve got some pills for you to take. Sit up.”

  Someone had covered her tongue in AstroTurf. “Turn off the sun first.”

  Mercifully, the light dimmed. Agnes cracked open her eyes enough to see her surroundings and was relieved to find she was in her hotel room.

  Logan returned to her side. “Come on, let’s get you sitting.”

  With his help, she managed to get somewhat upright, but each tiny movement triggered a cacophony of percussion instruments playing in her head.

  “Pills,” Logan ordered.

  “Not so loud.” She took the pills and forced them past the grass growing in her mouth. The water was glorious, and she drank it down like she’d just come out of the desert. “More.” She held out the glass to him, and he gamely walked to the bathroom to refill it. “What time is it?”

  “Eight.”

  “In the morning?”

  “Aye.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Market Saturday?” For all she knew, she could have lost weeks. It sure as hell felt like it.

  “Aye.” He sat on the chair beside her bed, studying her as she drank.

  “Okay,” she said at last. “Explain it to me. Why are you here? Why do I feel like a truck ran over me? Twice. What’s going on?”

  “Basically, you fell into a bottle of stolen whisky, ate a carrot cake with your hands, serenaded me over the phone with bad karaoke, and then passed out cold on the pub floor next to your partner in crime.”

  Oh no, it was all coming back to her. And it was horrific. “Betty,” she groaned.

  “Aye, Betty.”

  “Is she dead?” She remember
ed Betty lying on the floor. Had she let a woman die while she was singing?

  “No, she isn’t dead. Although, she might be once Dougal finds out she’s behind the whisky thefts. Not to mention the cake and the frozen ham.”

  This just kept getting worse. “I need more pills.”

  “You need more water.” He topped up her glass.

  “How did you get involved?” She hated asking, but she had to know.

  “Well, when you suddenly went silent mid-song, and it was followed by a thud, I figured there was something wrong, so I came to investigate, which was pretty easy because nobody had locked the hotel up for the night.”

  She ignored the implied reprimand over her lapse in security. “Where’s Betty now?”

  “Lake took her home.”

  “Lake was here, too?”

  “Aye.”

  “Dougal’s going to fire me, isn’t he?” Weirdly, that didn’t bother her one bit. “At least I won’t have to look after his dog when he goes to Spain.”

  “Dougal doesn’t know yet. Lake and I figured we’d let you tell him.”

  “Thanks.” She closed her eyes and tried to come up with a plan to deal with this. Nothing came to mind.

  “Do you want to know what you sang to me?”

  “No.” He didn’t need to tell her—it was all coming back to her. And it was mortifying.

  “Are you sure? Because it just so happens I have a recording. I can play it for you.”

  Oh, that was inexcusably cruel. “Leave me alone. I need to shower and then figure out what to tell Dougal.”

  “A shower would probably be a good idea. There’s cake in your hair, stains on your shirt, and your breath smells like grass.”

  So, she wasn’t imagining the grass thing. How the hell had that happened?

  “I want to die,” she groaned.

  “Drinking a bottle of whisky will do that to you,” he said cheerily.

  She moaned and opened her eyes to try to glare at him. That’s when she saw movement on one of the monitors on the dresser facing the bed. Slowly, so as not to start the percussion instruments playing in her head again, she sat forward and stared.