Page 65 of A Little Bit More

Betty Tries Blogging

This story takes place during Betty’s month long attempt to master social media, which happened just before Invertary book 7, Caught.

Betty McLeod’s Newsletter Blog on the Interweb of Invertary, Issue 1.

Hello, world,

Young Harry told me that writing a newsletter in this thing called a blog would be a better way to air my views with the world. He says that the things I write can sit here forever, and people can read them years after I’m gone. No’ that I’m planning on kicking the bucket any time soon. He wisnae too clear on how people would find my newsletter blog, but I’ve figured out how to get around that. I’ve got Lake’s latest receptionist to print it out, and she’ll deliver it to all the houses in town. So, if you’re reading this on paper, you need to know that you can also find it on the interweb. Harry says to goggle Betty McLeod.

Now, getting to the point of this newsletter. There are a few things going on in town that folk should know about:

Morag McKay has stopped using lard in her pies. She says it’s better for the heart, but they taste like foreign muck now. If I wanted a foreign pie, I’d get the bus to England. They don’t know how to make them either. Everybody needs to picket Morag’s shop until she changes back. It willnae be a bother for her. Morag likes a good picket.

I saw Dougal Jamieson holding hands with Margaret Campbell, and I think there’s a bit of hanky-panky going on there.

Kirsty Benson is making her knickers too small. Seeing as I owned a knicker shop for longer than she’s been alive, I know more about sizing than she ever will, and I can tell you right now, women don’t want a breeze where there shouldnae be one. MAKE YOUR KNICKERS BIGGER, KIRSTY!

Flynn and Abby Boyle’s kids are feral, and somebody should try to tame them before they eat their cousins.

And some bugger has been painting my statue with glow-in-the-dark paint. I don’t appreciate that, and I’ve asked Lake to put up cameras so that I can catch the bandit. Then I’m going tae paint you glow in the dark!

That’s it for the noo.

Betty

Lake Benson looked up from the piece of paper his wife had thrust under his nose.

“You need to do something about this.” Kirsty folded her arms over the emerald-green knit dress that hugged her curves to perfection.

“Like what?” He cocked his head to the side as he considered that. “I can inform my receptionist that I don’t pay her to run around after Betty. So you can assume there won’t be any more printed blogs being delivered around town.”

“No, not that.” She waved a hand. “The comment about my knickers. It’s not my fault Betty thinks underwear should come halfway down your thighs and sit under your boobs! That woman wouldn’t know a good pair of knickers if they slapped her in the face.”

Lake fought the urge to grin. Although he smiled a whole lot more readily since meeting his wife, he didn’t think she’d appreciate him seeing the humor in her current situation.

“Nobody cares what Betty says about the lingerie you design.”

“That’s not the point! She’s tarnishing my reputation with baseless slander.”

Lake still wasn’t clear what he was supposed to do about that.

Kirsty leaned forward and placed her palms on his desk. “You need to pull the plug on her before she causes even more trouble.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“I don’t know.” She threw up her hands in disgust before pacing the length of his office. Her red hair was in a high ponytail that made him itch to stroke it before winding it around his hand and tugging Kirsty into a long, deep kiss. “Are you listening to me?” she demanded.

There was no way he was going to answer that.

“I said,” she bit out with exasperation, “dangle something else in front of her beady little eyes. Something more tempting than pouring out her acidic thoughts in a newsletter. Distract her.”

“With what?” He held up a hand. “Don’t even suggest that I let her take part in security training. The woman’s heading to a hundred; the men would break her in two.”

Kirsty rolled her bright green eyes. “She’s indestructible. Her deal with the evil means she’ll be walking around long after we’re gone.”

“No security training.” Lake was adamant. His teams were professionals, and the last thing they needed was their job turning into entertainment for his feral pet hobbit.

“Fine. Then think of something because this”—she stabbed the piece of paper Lake had tossed onto his desk—“is going to be her last newsletter. One way or another.” And she strode out of the room.