Wes wasn’t back yet when I got home from work. Greg stood in the kitchen. He’d said he’d make spaghetti for our dinner, which was easy enough since I knew he wasn’t starting with fresh Roma tomatoes or anything like that. I had jars of a decent sauce in the cabinet and a bag of Italian meatballs in the freezer. My culinary talents had limits, especially on weekdays, and I knew for a fact that my admittedly limited abilities exceeded Greg’s in this department.
Greg looked up from the simmering sauce he was stirring. “How was work?” He tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot and placed it on the counter. “And I don’t want to hear any Martha Stewart cracks, either.”
I choked back a snort. “I’m pretty sure Martha would be mortified if anyone thought she’d opened a jar of sauce and war
