Page 15 of The Perfect Snipe

Mierda.

I hope she didn’t break anything.

My jaw clenches, molars grinding. That damn apartment complex she lives in should’ve cleaned the sidewalk better, used more salt. Who cares if it cracks the cement? The place caters to seniors so they should take more care with keeping the property safe. Why not install radiant heating in the sidewalks? Oh, yeah. Of course. Because they’re cheap assholes.

My heart drums against my ribcage as we approach the reception desk, the harsh fluorescent lights overhead casting a sterile glow over everything. “Hi, I’m looking for my grandmother. Rosa Alonso. She would've been brought in by ambulance like an hour ago.”

The receptionist's fingers fly over her keyboard, the soft clicking sound barely audible over the general hum of the emergency room. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, my boots squeaking slightly on the polished linoleum floor.

“Are you family?” she asks, glancing up from her screen.

I force a tight smile, even though I want to snap at her redundant question. “Yes. I’m her granddaughter.”

Her acrylic nails clatter over the keyboard. “Yes, she's still down here in the ER in bed 8C. Just head straight back through those double doors and a nurse can direct you.”

“Thank you.”

I hustle past the desk with Stella beside me, pushing through the doors into the chaotic ER area. The smell of antiseptic is stronger here, mingling with the beeps of machines and the murmurs of the staff. I weave around gurneys and equipment, waving down a passing nurse. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Rosa Alonso, bed 8C?”

She points toward a partitioned area.

I stop short in the doorway, my breath catching in my throat at the sight of my abuela looking so tiny and frail in her hospital gown and tucked under a thin blanket, an IV taped to the back of her slender hand. The harsh lights cast deep shadows on her face, accentuating every line and wrinkle, making her look older than I’ve ever seen her.

My grandmother’s deep brown eyes—mirror images of my own—blink open when she sees us enter. Her lips, still glossed despite the circumstances, curve into a faint smile. “Hola, mi nieta. Sorry if I scared you.”

I release Stella’s hand and walk to the bed. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Abuela pats my hand. “Ay, it's nothing. I stood up too fast and got dizzy. Next thing I knew, I was talking to some very handsome paramedics.”

She chuckles and waggles her eyebrows.

While it partially angers me she’s treating this as some sort of a joke, I’m also relieved she appears to be fine. “Please tell me you behaved.”

“I did need some help getting into the gurney. Not my fault if I needed to hold onto some biceps for a moment.”

I can’t with this woman sometimes. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, not wanting to encourage her.

She looks past me, her lips spreading into a wide smile. “And who’s this?”

Stella extends her hand. “I’m Stella Hartman.”

“Nice to meet you, Stella.” My grandmother’s grey speckled brows furrow for a second. “Hartman? Oh, you must be that handsome hockey captain’s daughter.”

“Abuela!”

She rolls her eyes. “Catharina, I’m not blind. That man is handsome. A Viking God.”

Stella giggles. “Yeah, he needs a girlfriend. Maybe he won’t be so grouchy then.”

My grandmother perks up, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head.

Shit.

“Your father is single?” Her voice rises with interest, and I resist the urge to groan.

“Seriously, Abuela. You know this.” Only because she’s so nosy and Wyatt is such a fucking chatterbox. Seriously, those two gossip too much.

“Well, maybe Stella can provide more insight as to why such a handsome man doesn’t have a girlfriend.” There's a glint in her eye that I know all too well—the look she gets when she's about to meddle.

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