“How are my two favorite girls doing tonight?” I looked up from my laptop and shook my head. Having been married to the same man for more than forty years, I knew when he wanted something. “Don’t try and sweet talk us, buster, I’m onto your tricks. Have you finished cleaning up the kitchen?” He grinned. “All done.” With a body by Pillsbury, poured into tight jeans, and a baseball hat pulled low on his head, he was about three hundred pounds of exaggeration, and twenty pounds of muscle. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against a man wearing a good hat; with Ross it served as a neon sign indicating his intentions. I looked at him over the top of my glasses and said, “What about the washing?” “I just put the last load into the machine, so if you can take it out when it’s finished and pop it into the dryer, I’ll put it away when I get back.” He hitched his jeans up over his truck-tire midriff and backed closer to the door. “I haven’t got time. You’ll have to do it when you get home.
