Page 54 of The Games We Play
I watched him through the glass, my pulse still unsteady as he strode toward his truck, tossing the books into the passenger seat before rounding the front and slipping behind the wheel.
The second he was gone, I let out the breath I’d been holding—then bit my lip to keep from smiling.
Because, damn it, things were already feeling charged and we were just getting started.
15
PENNY
“Sandy!” I called, the bell above the front door of Petal Pusher jingling as it shut behind me. A large, grease-stained pizza box balanced in my hands—the unmistakable scent of extra pepperoni filling the air, mine and Sandy’s favorite, no question.
I made my way through the flower shop, weaving between bouquets of pastel lilies and bright sunflowers, past the chalkboard sign that readToday’s Mood: Petal to the Metal, and straight into the back room.
Sandy stood at the wash station, sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in soapy water as she rinsed out a cluster of glass vases. The soft clink of one tapping against another echoed lightly in the room.
“It’s about time,” she said, flipping the last vase upside down on the drying rack before wiping her hands on the front of her floral apron. “I was starting to think my Penelope stood me up. You know my rule.”
I let out a little laugh as I set the pizza box on the small table we always used. “I know, I know,” I said, huffing as I brushed some flower scraps from the table. “Home before dark.”
Sandy gave a knowing smile and nodded, untying her apron. “Let me lock the door. Plates are in the cabinet, same as always,” she added, pointing in that direction with a flick of her wrist like I hadn’t eaten dinner here at least a hundred times.
This little tradition of ours had become a rhythm. Neither of us had anyone waiting at home, so we found comfort in sharing these simple moments together. A makeshift family stitched together by pizza, gossip, and love.
The swinging doors creaked as Sandy returned from the front, her steps a little slower than usual. Her hand moved instinctively to her hip, pressing into it as though she were trying to soothe something tender. My brows pulled together as I set plates in our usual spots.
“You okay?” I asked, keeping my tone light but laced with concern. I turned to fully face her, arms folded across my chest as I watched the way she walked—controlled, a little too careful. She straightened up when she saw me watching, a practiced smile sliding across her face.
But her eyes told a different story.
“Sandy…” I said, the single word heavy with meaning as I followed her toward the office.
“I’m fine,” she replied quickly, shrugging out of her apron and tossing it over the back of her desk chair. “I just twisted my hip a little funny, that’s all.”
I didn’t believe her for a second.
Sandy was the kind of woman who would climb a ladder with a sprained ankle just to hang eucalyptus garlands across her storefront. She didn’t let people in easily—not really. When she did admit to needing help, it was usually more about keeping me from fussing than about her actually asking.
Still, I didn’t push. Not yet.
I made a quiet promise to myself that I’d totally be asking about this later.
“Come on, Penelope,” Sandy said as she brushed past me and out of her office. A gust of rose-scented perfume lingered in her wake, trailing through the air. I stood still for a second, watching her try her damnedest to hide the limp in her stride.
I sighed and followed after her, catching up just in time to beat her to the table. I pulled out her chair and offered my arm in a silent assist.
“Will youplease,” she said with a light laugh, brushing me off. “I’m okay.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, backing off with my hands in the air in mock surrender. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”
“And I appreciate that,” she replied with a pointed look, “but I don’t need you to coddle me.”
I opened the pizza box and grabbed two slices, handing her one before sitting down across from her. “I’m going to anyway,” I said with a wink, biting into my slice.
Sandy shook her head, trying to smother her smile as she took a bite of her own.
She could pretend to be annoyed, but we both knew better.
Sandy had been a constant in my life since I moved into the tiny apartment above Petal Pusher after high school. At this point, she was less of a landlord and more of a grandmother—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and the most fiercely independent woman I knew. But that didn’t mean she got to limp around like her hip wasn’t screaming for rest without me stepping in.
