Can't Buy Me Love (Sinclair Sisters 3)

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.