Page 28 of The Games We Play
Pushing through the swinging doors into her prep area, I found her sitting on the floor, back against the stainless-steel table leg, like she’d accepted her fate.
“Oh my gosh!” I huffed, rushing toward her.
Sandy’s head snapped up, and she gave me a small, sheepish smile. “Oh, thank goodness,” she sighed, reaching for my extended hand as I pulled her to her feet.
She dusted her hands off on the front of her apron, brushing away whatever debris had stuck to her from the floor.
“I dropped a vase,” she admitted, gesturing to the mess around us. “Bent down to pick up the bigger chunks of glass, lost my balance, and well, here we are.”
She turned her hands over, revealing tiny scrapes—evidence of her attempt to catch herself.
My stomach dropped. “Are you hurt? Do you need me to take you to the emergency clinic?” I grabbed her biceps, scanning her from head to toe for anything else she wasn’t telling me.
Sandy laughed—actuallylaughed—then grabbed my cheeks, tilting my head up so I had no choice but to look at her. The concern must’ve been written all over my face. My heart was still thudding in my ears. I was full of adrenaline, bracing for the worst.
“No, sweetie, I’m okay.” Her smile softened, and my shoulders sagged in relief. “I’m just glad your nosiness got the best of you and made you check on me.”
I rolled my eyes, finally exhaling a deep breath. “Youscaredme!” My voice rose as I planted my hands on my hips. “Next time, use a broom and dustpan.”
Sandy chuckled and patted my arm, guiding me toward the little table and chair she usually perched at while assembling her bouquets.
“Take a seat. Let me get you a drink.”
I huffed. “Ishould be gettingyouthe drink and makingyousit down.”
“I’ve been sitting for…” She glanced at her watch. “Forty-five minutes.”
Before I could argue, she disappeared for a moment, then returned with iced tea and a plate of cookies.
I accepted the tea with a grumble. “How many times have I told you, begged you, to keep your phone in your apron?” I scowled, biting into a cookie and washing it down with a sip.
Sandy waved me off, already turning toward the other side of the narrow space, acting as if she hadn’t just spent nearly an hour stranded on the floor.
“Stubborn woman,” I muttered, shaking my head.
With a dustpan and broom finally in hand—the choice she should’ve made from the start—Sandy began sweeping up the shattered glass.
“Did you need my help with Mother’s Day weekend again this year?” I asked, steering the conversation in a new direction.
For the last few years, I’ve dedicated my weekends to helping Sandy fulfill the holiday orders. Usually, there was a huge influx, and without anyone else working the shop, Sandy could hardly keep up.
“Yes,” she replied, squatting to grab the dustpan.
My breath hitched.
“Penelope,” Sandy scolded.
I rolled my eyes. “What days were you thinking? You know I’m free the whole weekend.”
It wasn’t like I had Mother’s Day plans. My relationship with my parents was nonexistent, which made it an easy choice to spend my time helping Sandy however she needed.
“I could use that creative eye of yours to help me put together some arrangements.AndI might need help loading up a pretty big order for the community center.”
Sandy straightened, pivoting toward the trash can before dumping the last of the glass inside.
Mother’s Day was still two weekends away, so I made a mental note to jot it down in my calendar once I finally got upstairs.
“Well, you put me to work, and we’ll get it done,” I assured her.
