Page 41 of Come Fly With Me

She appeared to be waiting for something, but nothing happened.

“Bunch of bloody idiots,” she snapped. “I mean now. Get your phones out and get on with it. If you get stuck, Harry will help.”

Harry made a whining sound that made Dougal think of injured animals.

“What if we don’t want to be your Facebook friend?” Shona asked. “You cannae force people to do it.”

“Is that right?” Betty stared Shona down, and for a second, it looked like horn shapes appeared on her shadow on the wall. “If I don’t have an audience of friend people on The Face Book, I might have to use my free time to remind people that they need to accept my interweb offer.”

“Crap,” somebody muttered, followed by a flurry of activity as everyone pulled out their phones.

“This is blackmail,” Morag protested.

“Aye, so it is.” Betty laughed as her phone started pinging with notifications that her friend total was increasing. “Margaret Campbell, I don’t see you accepting my friend invite.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Margaret grumbled while tapping at her phone. “Happy now? It’s no’ like we need to look at your posts, you know. We can friend you and still bloody well ignore you.”

Betty seemed a little flummoxed by that. She turned to Harry, the mic still in her hand. “Is that right?”

He ducked his head and squirmed in his seat. “Uh, yeah. People can be your friend but choose not to see your posts.”

“Well, how the hell am I supposed to get my audience then?” Betty demanded.

“You could try being nicer,” Shona suggested.

That caused much laughter.

“So, let me get this right.” Betty stared at her phone in disgust. “There’s no way to make people listen to me on The Face Book?”

“No!” came the crowd’s enthusiastic response.

“Then what’s the bloody point in that?” She tossed the mic back at Peter and stormed out of the room, muttering about her right to get her message out as she went.

“Any other business?” Dougal called as Betty left.

“Aye,” Morag said. “We need to talk about limiting Betty’s access to Harry.”

And, as one, the town turned to glare at their resident computer expert.

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.”