‘s**t,’ she cursed when her hip vibrated. ‘Not now.’
Nearly all the 450 permanent residents in town had her mobile number—and hubby Steve’s, too—but they never rang on Wednesdays simply to chat. Barb’s rest days were no-fly zones except in emergencies, doubly so during karaoke every second week.
She took the call outside. A minute later, she rushed in.
‘Babysitter?’
‘Work.’
Steve screwed up his nose. ‘Take the car. I’ll grab a lift if you don’t make it back.’
‘Wait up for me.’ Barb kissed him full-lipped. ‘We’re definitely having our nookie while the kids are at Sal’s.’
‘You betcha, babe.’
She drove away feeling a cocktail of emotion. A dash of disappointment at missing karaoke and the chance to defend her title of Loch Sport Gumboot-throwing Champion later—if anyone was dumb enoug
