Can't Buy Me Love (Sinclair Sisters 3)

“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.

“You have got to be kidding me!” she whispered.

“What?” Logan turned to see what she was talking about and started laughing.

“This isn’t funny. I’m going to kill Dougal—and that bloody dog.” She tried to scramble out of bed but got tangled in the sheets. “Don’t just sit there. Help me,” she demanded.

With a chuckle, Logan freed her and set her on her feet beside the bed. “I don’t think you’re up to this,” he said.

“Thanks for the encouragement.” She rummaged around in her dresser drawer until she found a pair of sunglasses and put them on. That was better. Then she grabbed her boots and shoved her feet into them. It would have to do.

Still wearing the Christmas sweatshirt and jeans she’d slept in, she staggered out of her room. It took holding on to the handrail with both hands to get her down the stairs, and every step drove a spike through her left eyeball.

Logan appeared beside her, looking fresh and awake. “Maybe you should do this when you’re feeling better?”

“No. I’m doing this now.” She made her way along the first-floor corridor to the console that sat in the middle of the longest wall. It held a vase of flowers and some magazines.

She’d always focused on the flowers, making sure they were fresh, and she’d never noticed what was under the table. Well, she was paying attention now. After getting to her knees, which took four million years and made her head throb like a bad disco beat, she crawled to the wall—where a tiny cupboard door stood ajar.

Agnes eased it open and peeked inside. Amongst the cables and dust lay a treasure trove of stolen goods—and a bloody dog.

“That’s it. I’m done.” Agnes dragged the dog out of the cupboard and inched backward with it clutched under one arm.

Logan had to help her to her feet again and then hold her until she’d stopped swaying. “The lights in this hotel are too damn bright. Doesn’t Dougal care about his electricity bill?” Even with the sunglasses, her eyes still hurt. “I’m okay now, so you can let go. I’m going to the bar.”

“People say the hair of the dog is the best cure for a hangover,” he said as he followed her. “Trust me—they’re wrong. You’d be better off in bed with a glass of water and some ibuprofen.”

“I’m glad you’re having fun with my pain. I’m going to the bar to return Dougal’s thieving dog to its owner and give my boss a piece of my mind. Believe me, it’s long overdue. Now, are you coming or not?” She narrowed her eyes at him behind her sunglasses.

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

Getting to the bar took longer than she would have liked. Each step was like negotiating a descent from Everest, all while holding a squirming canine thief and being monitored by Logan.

As she’d expected, her boss stood behind the bar, polishing glasses and checking the bottles for the day ahead.

“Would you believe it?” he said when he saw them. “Another bottle of whisky’s gone missing.”