His phone went straight to voicemail—again. She cooled herself. An angry message would only prolong his absence.
“Honey, you promised you’d be home by seven.” The digital clock over the stove displayed 9:32.
“I know your job’s important.” She wouldn’t think about the temp. The one with the blond pixie cut. The one who wore the baby doll dress with the plunging neckline to the office picnic.
“I made your favorite—It’s getting cold.” The contempt rose in her voice. She had to hang up.
She wished she’d finished school before the baby. Tonight, her only company was wasted lasagna.