“The Christmas market starts the day after tomorrow, and it’s our busiest time of the year.”
He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. “I’m aware of when the market starts. I also know the hotel is booked solid from tomorrow, and the town will get busy tomorrow afternoon.” That’s why they’d booked in a band for Friday night.
“Aye, well, I wanted to make sure you had everything ready.”
“Yes, everything’s ready.”
Dougal frowned as though he didn’t quite believe her. Although, she had to admit, finding her asleep probably didn’t help to instill confidence.
“What about the band? Did you liaise with them? Do they have everything they need for tomorrow night?”
“They’re all set for tomorrow, and they’re looking forward to it.” They’d booked a local folk band to perform Christmas songs. It wasn’t as though U2 was coming. The band’s main concern was that they’d get their drinks for free.
“What about the karaoke for Saturday night? Is that ready?”
Agnes stared at him, wondering if it was a trick question. There was a stage in the corner of the pub, and the karaoke machine had been loaded with Christmas songs. What else was there to do?
“Yes,” she said. “It’s all under control.”
“Did you do a sound check and make sure the microphone is working properly, like I asked?”
“The mic is great. The speakers are working at peak performance. It’s all completely fine.” She slid her hands into her lap and dug her nails into her palms. To stop herself from screaming.
“Good, good.” Dougal stroked his Santa beard. “And the kitchen hasn’t had any trouble with the menu?”
Why was he asking her this? He must have passed the kitchen on the way to her office.
“No,” she said, keeping her voice even. “No trouble. They’ve got the special festive finger food ready to go, and I’ve had Bernadette print up some menus for the bar. We’ll roll them out tomorrow afternoon.”
“What about the prizes for the raffle?”
“All wrapped and numbered.”
“Did you remember to appoint someone to handle the raffle table?”
“Bernadette’s going to do it.”
As she spoke, Dougal’s brow became increasingly furrowed. Any minute now, his eyes would disappear under his bushy white eyebrows, never to be seen again.
“The Christmas trees in the pub and the hotel lobby need more sparkly lights,” he said.
“Okay.” If she dug her nails any deeper into her palms, they’d poke out around her knuckles.
“Shouldn’t you be taking notes?”
Honestly, would he even notice if she screamed? “I think I can remember sparkly lights.”
“Aye, well, we’ll see.” Dougal tugged down his damn waistcoat, which was a pink tartan today. Where did he get these things? Did he have a bunch of elves secreted in the basement making them for him?
“We’ve got a staff meeting tomorrow morning, after breakfast. We’ll hand out the Christmas hats and jumpers then so the staff can wear them for the rest of the day,” he said.
Agnes froze. Jumpers?
“Agnes, did you hear me?” He looked like a shark who’d scented blood in the water. “You do have the items we need, don’t you?”
Clearing her throat, she pointed to the box in the corner of her office that contained the Christmas hats. “Of course,” she said. “It’s all under control.”
Only it wasn’t, because there were no Christmas jumpers. In fact, this was the first time Dougal had even mentioned them. Hats and headbands, yes. Tinsel and Christmas music, yes. Freaking Christmas jumpers? No!
“Okay, then.” He paused long enough to make her wonder if he’d fallen asleep on his feet. “Good job,” he said at last.
She bet that stuck in his throat. “Thanks.”
“I’ll go check the bar. We’re doing a stocktake to establish exactly how much liquor has gone missing over the past year.”
“Once you have more information, hopefully we can narrow down who’s been stealing. On the subject of the thefts, I just had an email from Benson Security.” She didn’t mention Logan, because the email had come from Lake—and she was trying not to think about Logan. That only led to crying like a baby. “The background checks are back and the staff were cleared, meaning they’re no longer on the suspect list.”
“As I expected.” Dougal turned toward the door. “Don’t forget the Christmas napkins,” he said before leaving.
When Bernadette popped her head around the door a minute later, Agnes hadn’t moved.
“I’m about to finish for the day,” the receptionist said. “Do you need anything?”
“You don’t happen to have twenty-three Christmas jumpers I could borrow, do you? Dougal needs them for the morning.”
“Eh, no. I don’t even have one.”
“Never mind, I’ll think of something.” It was late on Thursday afternoon. She’d spent the day dealing with one stupid crisis after another, on barely any sleep. And now, an hour before the shops close, her boss tells her he wants Christmas jumpers for everyone to wear the following morning. It actually seemed kind of funny that her career would end because she couldn’t get Christmas jumpers in time.
“Well, if that’s all?” Bernadette said, backing up. “I’ll leave you to it.”
And then she closed the door behind her.
There was nothing Agnes could do but put her head back on the desk and groan.
Where was she going to find Christmas jumpers now?
Chapter 17
When Logan opened his door at eight o’clock on Thursday evening, he wasn’t expecting to find Agnes standing there.
“I know things are over between us,” she said, “but I need…help.”
That last word seemed to stick in her throat some. Logan folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. This, he had to hear, but, first, there was another little matter that needed clearing up. “Things aren’t over between us. I was trying to give you some space. You seemed to need it.”
If glares could kill, he’d have been dead on his doorstep. “I kicked you out. That implies things are over.”
“You freaked out because the sex was”—he formed air quotes around his next words—“too good.”
“I didn’t freak out. I told you clearly that this thing between us has no future and, therefore, can’t continue.”
“Say what you like, but we both know there was definite freaking out involved.” Logan folded his arms again.
She’d added teeth gritting to her glaring now. “Let’s leave that for now and deal with the reason I’m here.”
“That reason being that you need…?” He arched an eyebrow.
“Help.” Agnes forced the word through clenched teeth.
“Was that so hard to say? I’ve seen criminals have less trouble confessing their guilt.”
“Will you help me or not?”
Logan threw the door wide. “Aye, seeing as you asked so nicely, I’ll help. Come on in.”
“Wait.” She pointed behind her. “I need to get stuff out of the car.”
“Since when do you have a car?”
“Since I had to hire one to get to and from Fort William this evening.” She turned and stomped back to the car. Which, by the looks of it, was one of the Davidson brothers’ old bangers that they rented out for extra cash. He was surprised the wreck had made it to Fort William and back.
Curious, he followed her to the boot, which she opened by thumping it with her fists.
“Don’t say anything,” Agnes threatened.
“I wouldn’t dare.” But nothing could stop him grinning.
Once it creaked open, she took out a couple of huge carrier bags and thrust them at him, then delved inside for more. In the end, they both carried several bags each into his house. Logan led her past the living room and into the kitchen, where Drew sat at the table doing homework with his headphones on.
It wasn’t until they’d dumped the bags beside him that he looked up. He did a double take when he spotted Agnes, then shot out of his chair, pulling his headphones off as he stood.
“This is Agnes,” Logan said. “She isn’t my girlfriend. This is Drew. He is my son.”
“Hi, Drew,” Agnes said before turning to Logan. “Was that description really necessary?”
“I know how much you like things to be clear between us.” He took the kettle to the sink and filled it.
“Uh, should I leave you two alone?” Drew asked, his eyes darting between them.
“No,” Logan and Agnes said at the same time.
While Agnes took off her coat and hung it on the back of one of the dining chairs, Drew inched toward the bags.
“What’s all this?”
“This is a problem I have,” Agnes said on a sigh. “Dougal came into my office late this afternoon and told me that every staff member has to have a Christmas jumper to wear this weekend.” She snorted. “First I’d heard of it. Anyway, I hadn’t bought any, so I rushed through to Fort William to see what they had—after renting the car from hell to do it—and they’d sold out. All I managed to get was these.” She tipped the contents of one of her bags onto the table and held up several plain sweatshirts in assorted colors.
“They don’t look very Christmassy,” Drew said helpfully.
“Thanks, that’s exactly the kind of thing my nephew would have said.” Agnes made the sign of the cross—incorrectly. “May he rest in peace.”
“Oh.” Drew looked panicked.
“Ignore her. She’s being sarcastic. Her nephew, Jack, is very much alive.” Logan placed a mug of black coffee in front of the monster, making sure it had two sugars, just the way she liked it. He rummaged in the pantry and came out with a packet of chocolate biscuits that he also put beside her. “Eat. Drink. Have you had dinner?”
“I grabbed a burger.” She reached for the coffee, took a sip, then closed her eyes with a sigh.
Damn, she was gorgeous. Logan tore his eyes from her to find his son staring at him. Great, so much for keeping things on the down-low.
“What’s going on?” Darcy said as she came into the kitchen, her ever-present book tucked under her arm. “Agnes!” To Agnes’ obvious shock, Darcy threw her arms around her and hugged her tight. “Don’t worry. I know you won’t be my stepmum, but I still like you.” She released Agnes just as fast as she’d grabbed her and looked down at the table. “Why do you have so many sweatshirts?”
Agnes still seemed to be suffering shock from the hug attack, but she shook it off to answer. “I was telling Drew and your dad that I need to make these look Christmassy by tomorrow morning. I got stuff that might help.” She grabbed another bag and tipped it onto the table. Glue, tinsel, stickers, and lights fell out. “I was hoping you guys could help me stick this stuff to the sweatshirts and make them look good.”
It was Darcy who spoke, and she did it gently, putting a hand on Agnes’ arm to comfort her while she broke the bad news. “Agnes, most of that stuff isn’t going to stick to a sweatshirt. The glue’s the wrong kind to make it stick. And the lights need a socket.”
Desperation flashed in Agnes’ eyes. “I have needles and thread too. And some stickers. Oh, and fabric pens. Something has to work, right?” She lifted a gray sweatshirt. “I don’t have an artistic bone in my body, and I’ve got twenty-three of these to decorate before the morning.”
Logan shared a look of understanding with his kids. “Drew, set up the folding table in the living room. Darcy, run and get your gran. Agnes, get everything out of the bags and sort it so we can see what we’ve got.”
She blinked at him. “So, you’ll help?”
“Aye, of course we’ll help.”
“Craft project,” Darcy shouted and then clapped her hands.
Agnes looked at them in utter awe before doing as she was told, laying everything out in an orderly manner over the table and eating her way through the chocolate biscuits while she did so. A few minutes later, Darcy and Logan’s mother let themselves into the house and joined them in the kitchen.
“What’s this about Dougal needing last-minute Christmas jumpers?” his mum asked, with a look on her face that told him she was ready to give someone a piece of her mind.
“He says he needs them for tomorrow morning and that everyone at work has to wear one. I honestly don’t remember him mentioning this before, but that’s not the point, so I went to Fort William and got the only sweatshirts left in town,” Agnes said. “And everything I could think of to decorate them.”
His mother, who was wearing red leggings and a knee-length purple jumper with white pompoms all over it, surveyed Agnes’ haul. “This won’t do at all. You haven’t done much crafting, have you, Agnes?”
“I made a teapot in ceramics class when I was thirteen,” Agnes said. “It ended up as an ashtray.”
His mum pursed her lips in disgust. “Before you leave this town, the women and I are going to make sure you have some skills under your belt for your future. That way, you won’t get into a mess like this again.”
Agnes opened her mouth, most likely to complain, but his mum held up a hand as she took out her phone.
“Margaret?” she said once she’d tapped the screen. “We have a couple of dozen blank sweatshirts that need to scream Christmas by tomorrow morning. Dougal has put our girl on the spot, and we can’t let her lose a round to that old fart. Raid your shop and bring what we need. All Agnes has is tinsel and glue sticks.” She paused. “Aye, clueless. We can’t let this go on—we need to take her in hand.” Another pause. “I’ll call the others, but bring everything you can think of. Dougal’s going to get the best damn Christmas jumpers on the planet. And he can take them and shove them right up—”
“Okay!” Logan took the phone from her hand and ended the call.
“I don’t understand why you’re so upset about this,” Agnes said. “I don’t think Dougal did it intentionally. There’s also the possibility he told me about the jumpers and I forgot.”
Logan chuckled, attracting an irritated glance from his mother. But he couldn’t help it—that was funny. He’d seen how Agnes worked, and she forgot nothing.
His mum’s eyes narrowed. “Did you forget, or did he spring them on you last minute to see what you’d do? From what I hear, he regrets hiring a manager, even for the year. It’s driving him nuts to give over control of his baby.” She hesitated before adding, “I mean the hotel, not the dog.”
“Then why doesn’t he fire me? It would be a whole lot less hassle for both of us.” Logan thought he saw relief flash in Agnes’ eyes.
“And upset Lake Benson and Callum McKay? I don’t think so. No, he’s playing dirty. And he should know better.” His mother’s eyes blazed as she looked at Agnes. “We were talking about you in the pub the other night, the Knit or Die women and me, and we were saying how we planned on making you a member whether you wanted to become one or not. A girl like you needs a posse at her back while she stirs things up around here.”
Darcy giggled, while Agnes gaped at his mother. “Whether I want it or not?”
Her question had no impact on his mother, who was on a roll. “That old fart must have heard us, but he still had the audacity to pull a stunt like this. Well, he’s no’ picking on one of ours. This is war.” She shoved up her sleeves in a clear sign she was ready to fight, only her jumper wouldn’t cooperate, and the sleeves fell again. She shoved them back up. They fell. Now, she was irritated, but it seemed she wouldn’t let the jumper win any more than she’d let Dougal win.
Logan caught Drew’s eye, and they grinned at each other. The women of Knit or Die had been looking for a reason to start up their war with Dougal again, and Agnes had handed it to them on a plate.
“I don’t understand,” Agnes said again.
“What’s to understand?” his mother asked, still fighting with her sleeves. “You’re one of ours.” At last, she got the sleeves to
stay up, and she grinned triumphantly before patting Agnes on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ve got your back. Now, give me that phone, Logan, so I can call the others.”
“But, I’m not a member of Knit or Die,” Agnes protested.
“You don’t choose knitting,” his mum said solemnly. “It chooses you.”
Really, there was nothing anyone could say to that.
There were two sewing machines set up on Logan’s kitchen table, one operated by Heather, the other by Jean. They were attaching applique shapes, cut from fabric Margaret had brought from her craft shop, to the front of sweatshirts. Around the long folding table Drew had put up in the center of the living room, Shona, Margaret, and Darcy sat finishing off the sweatshirts the women in the kitchen had already done. They added detailed embellishments with an assortment of crafty things that Agnes had a hard time identifying. The only thing they’d used that she’d bought was the tinsel.
Logan and Drew were in charge of the fabric markers. It was their job to add witty slogans to the sweatshirts once everything else had been done. After reading some of their efforts, Agnes wasn’t sure they were the right people for the job. Meanwhile, after much discussion about Agnes’ craft skills, she’d been tasked with making tea.
She’d never felt more useless in her life.
“Do you need help with the tea?” Logan asked as he came into the kitchen.
“Aye, because it’s sooooooo hard.” She rolled her eyes at him.
She liked his house—it wasn’t cluttered, but it wasn’t minimalist either. It was just…homey. The walls were a warm cream, the floor a polished wood, the kitchen appliances were white and, in general, the furniture looked sturdy. The living room sofa—an oversized, overstuffed monstrosity—made her want to curl up in the corner of it and sleep in front of the fire. The house was a lot like the man, she decided—uncomplicated, warm and inviting, with some interesting quirks. It was a house that beckoned you in and invited you to stay for a while.
Can't Buy Me Love: Romantic Comedy (Sinclair Sisters Trilogy Book 3) Page 14