Page 44 of A Little Bit More

Second Time Around

This story takes place after Can’t Buy Me Love.

Dougal Jamieson was the first to admit that he wasn’t every woman’s cup of tea. By the time he hit his sixties, he’d sailed past the fit physique of his youth, bid farewell to the dad bod of his middle years, and was now firmly in Santa territory. Aye—he patted his stomach, which more resembled a beer barrel than a six-pack—he’d definitely passed his prime.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t take pride in his appearance. Which he did, every day. His silver-gray hair was neat and tidy, his trimmed beard shone a gleaming white, and he chose his clothes for flair and fit—rather than mature restraint. He’d never understood why the joy of clothing was reserved only for the young.

Which was why, on a quiet Tuesday evening in the middle of a warm Scottish summer, he was dressed in a lemon shirt, a pale blue Harris tweed waistcoat, and blue tartan trousers—with a fine yellow line running through them. Although he wasn’t averse to a bit of sparkle now and then, he thought this outfit debonair enough without it.

“Why, Dougal,” Agnes Sinclair—no, McBride now she was married—said with a grin, “you’re looking dashing this evening. Got a hot date?”

As usual, Dougal’s look of reprimand was wasted on the woman. “And why would that be any of your business?”

“Hypocritical much? You constantly poke your nose into stuff that has nothing to do with you. So, ’fess up. What’s the occasion?”

This arguing was a new dynamic to their relationship. Something that’d arisen since Agnes resigned as his hotel manager and now helped out around the pub and hotel whenever the feeling took her. While he hated to admit it, their casual working relationship was far better than their formal one had ever been. In fact, they’d even formed a friendship of sorts. Of course, not the kind where he’d let her into all of his secrets.

“It’s necessary that I keep abreast of what’s going on around here,” he informed her. “Not only am I the mayor, unofficially of course, but there are certain folk in town who shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions without supervision.” He cast a glance over to the corner of the pub’s restaurant, where Josh McInnes was holding court with a handful of his fans. The singer was currently autographing various body parts. Dougal shook his head. “You’d better call his wife to come fetch him before he gets himself into trouble.”

“Auch, just let him have his fun,” Agnes said. “I’ll make sure he isn’t abducted or forced to sign anything that shouldn’t see the light of day in public.” She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Now, about that date of yours…”

“I’ll have you know that I’m meeting up with Margaret Campbell at the spa restaurant. We have town business to discuss. Not to mention, we need to talk about Knit or Die’s yarn bombing. What kind of example are they setting for the young ones when they keep covering public facilities in knitting?”

“Um, the kind where they show them there are healthy ways to protest?”

Dougal rolled his eyes. “Protest what? Half the time, we’ve no idea why they’re yarn bombing something. I’m no’ even sure they know!”

“There is that. Last week, they put knitted coats on all of the town’s bins. Were they protesting that we need more trash cans? Or were they making a comment about us having too much rubbish altogether? Or were the bins just cold? It was a bit confusing.” Agnes shrugged. “But cute.”

“Aye, well, I’ll be having a wee word with Margaret about that episode too. Now,”—he looked around the quiet room—“if there’s any problems, make sure and call me.”

“I think we’ll manage fine without you for a few hours. Anyway, the drunken riot isn’t scheduled until Friday.”

“Nobody likes a smart-arse.” He tugged down his waistcoat, resisting the urge to ask her how he looked. “Mind and phone if you need me.”

She saluted him. “Make sure you enjoy your meeting.”

With a frown in her direction, he headed for the door—just as one of Josh’s groupies whipped off her shirt for Josh to sign his name on her breast.

“I’ve got it,” Agnes called to him, coming out from behind the bar. “I promise only to use violence if there’s no other option.”

Fighting the instinct to cancel his evening and deal with matters himself, Dougal pushed through the door and out into the street facing the loch. The warm glow of the late evening sun bounced off the water, turning everything golden. Gulls swooped and glided beside the shore. And there was nary a cloud in the sky.

It was the perfect evening for wooing Widow Campbell.

* * *

“I don’t seewhy we had to meet here when we could easily have met at the pub like we usually do.” Margaret Campbell glanced around the beautiful dining room of the converted church that now housed the spa and restaurant. All polished wood, soft lighting, and elegance—it was more the venue for a romantic dinner than a telling-off from the town’s mayor.

“I told you already,”—Dougal smiled at her warmly—“it’s just easier for me to concentrate away from my business. Less interruptions.”

His smile made her stomach flutter like a schoolgirl’s. Over Dougal? A man she’d known, and clashed with, for years. A man who’d had a fling with one of her best friends. Okay, that was also years ago, but still…it gave her pause. Her cheeks flushed. What was she thinking? That there might be some attraction between them? Surely not. She was well past her use-by date. Although, if her daughter, Kirsty, heard her talking about herself like that, she’d get the lecture of the millennium. But the truth was, she hadn’t felt attractive in years. And she certainly hadn’t even looked at another man since her husband’s death…decades ago.

No, this strange reaction to Dougal was purely one last attempt by Mother Nature to use her waning hormones against her. Hormones. The bane of her life. But at least she could do something about them. She took out her phone and tapped a reminder: Ask doctor if there’s a hormone replacement therapy that counteracts delusional thinking.

Reaching for her water glass, she forced herself to focus on the matter at hand instead of her wayward imagination. “What’s so important that you need to talk to me without the rest of the group?”

“We’ve got all evening to get to that.” Dougal picked up his menu. “Why don’t we order first? I hear the steak is delicious.” He leaned in to whisper, “Even better than at the pub, but don’t tell the owner.”