Page 45 of A Little Bit More

Margaret couldn’t help but chuckle. It was well known that Dougal’s hotel and pub was his baby, and he obsessed over them. But it was also well known that he wanted what was best for Invertary. Which was why he made an effort to support every business in town, both personally and in his role on the council.

“Steak sounds good,” she mused. “Although the pork sounds wonderful too.”

“We could get both and share. No sense in missing out, is there?” His eyes sparkled at her, and she felt her cheeks warm.

Did he realize that sharing food was an intimacy? Although, her female friends sometimes pilfered chips off her plate. Was he just being friendly? They’d never really had that sort of relationship. Maybe she was reading too much into the situation. Argh! She was going to have an aneurism if she couldn’t stop overthinking everything.

“Whatever we order,” he said with forced seriousness, “we’ll need to make sure we leave room for dessert. Best part of the meal.”

“True,” she agreed.

After a pause, Dougal said, “Next time, we could just double up on dessert.” His tone was so casual that it took a moment for his words to sink in.

Margaret stilled, her eyes glued to the menu in her hand. Did he mean their next meeting? Or something else? Something more private.

Before she could ask, someone cleared their throat, and she looked up to find the restaurant’s chef grinning down at them.

“Slumming it?” Deke asked Dougal. Even in his chef’s whites, he still looked like he belonged in the military rather than the kitchen. He folded his muscular arms over his chest. “So, what did we do to deserve this honor?”

Before he could get the wrong idea—or the right one, because who the heck knew what was going on—Margaret said, “We needed somewhere quiet to discuss council business.”

“Is that right?” Deke grinned.

His arched brows said he didn’t believe a word of it, which made her face heat even further. Instead of a confident woman in her twilight years, she felt like a schoolgirl caught behind the bike shed with her boyfriend. Her eyes shot to Dougal. Had she just thought the word boyfriend about a man in his sixties? Dear heavens above, she needed wine.

“Last I checked,” Deke said, “you weren’t on the council, Margaret.”

Dougal scowled at him, his white brows furrowing. “Knit or Die is an important group in our community, so we often consult with them.”

And reprimand them, Margaret thought.

Deke made a point of looking around the room. “I don’t see the rest of the group. And my wife never mentioned a meeting.” His wife was the youngest member of Knit or Die, having joined the group around the time of their first-ever protest yarn bombing. She hadn’t been much of a knitter, but she was fair coming along.

“Margaret’s the leader of the group,” Dougal said, in that haughty tone he used to shut down dissent at the town meetings. “She’s more than capable of making decisions on behalf of her members.” He made them sound like a national union instead of a local craft group with fewer than ten members. “Now,”—Dougal frowned—“are we getting to eat, or are you just going to interrogate us all evening?”

Deke rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”

“There’s nothing like good customer service to whet an appetite,” Dougal grumbled. “I’ll have the steak, medium-rare. And bring us a bottle of Shiraz. A good one.”

“A bottle of wine?” Margaret said. Maybe a glass, but a bottle? At a meeting?

Dougal flashed that dazzling smile again. “A couple of glasses of wine with our meal won’t do us any harm.”

“We don’t usually have alcohol at our meetings.” Did she sound flustered? She sure as heck felt it!

“We don’t usually have them over dinner either. Don’t worry, this is just a different kind of meeting.”

“I bet it is,” Deke muttered, smothering a grin.

Margaret stared at him for a moment as his meaning sank in. “Oh!” She shot to her feet. “I’ll just visit the ladies’ room. Won’t be long.” And then she grabbed her handbag, with her phone inside, and ran.

* * *

“I think I’m on a date,”Margaret hissed into the phone as she sat in the toilet cubicle of the town’s swankiest restaurant.

“Wait a minute,” Shona McBride, one of her best friends and a fellow member of Knit or Die, said. “Did you say date?”

“Aye.” She pressed a hand to her burning cheek.