Page 36 of Once Upon A Second Chance

Bijou trots in with one of my socks dangling from her mouth, her tail wagging like she knows something’s up.

“Oh,nowyou bring me socks,” I mutter, plucking it from her. She yips and immediately steals a pair of rolled-up leggings instead.

My phone buzzes.

Lena:So. You survived the night without chickening out?

I snap a photo of my disastrous packing situation and send it.

Me:Debatable.

Three dots bounce. Then—

Lena:OMW. Do NOT make any life choices until Iget there.

Ten minutes later, my front door flies open without so much as a knock.

Lena breezes in like a hurricane, her arms laden with two iced coffees and a paper bag that smells suspiciously like cinnamon rolls.

“Okay, first of all,” she says, shoving a coffee into my hand, “you’rewayoverthinking this.”

I take a long sip, the caffeine hitting my bloodstream like a lifeline. “It’s a weekend trip, Lena. WithRichard.”

“Uh-huh.” She plops onto my bed, sending a pair of jeans sliding to the floor. “And?”

“Andwe maderules.” I gesture wildly at the invisible list between us. “No big romantic gestures. No moving too fast. No—”

“—no fun, no spontaneity, noliving,” Lena finishes, rolling her eyes. She digs into the bag and produces a gooey cinnamon roll, thrusting it at me like a peace offering. “Pen.Lookat yourself.”

I frown. “What?”

“You’reglowing.And not just because you’ve been staring at that photo of the cabin like it’s the Holy Grail.”

She takes a massive bite of her own roll, talking around it. “Youwantto go.”

I slump onto the bed beside her, the fight draining out of me. “What if it’s too soon?”

Lena levels me with a look. “What if it’snot?”

The question hangs between us, heavy and undeniable.

Bijou chooses that moment to leap onto the bed, trampling my carefully folded sweaters in favor of shoving her nose into Lena’s pastry bag.

“See?” Lena says, scratching behind Bijou’s ears. “Evensheknows you’re being ridiculous.”

I exhale, long and slow, then reach for the lacy bra I’d been debating and throw it in the suitcase. “Fuck it.”

Lena whoops, tossing a pillow at my head. “Finally.”

The late afternoon sun slants golden through the clinic parking lot as I lug my duffel bag toward Richard’s truck.

He’s already there, leaning against the tailgate with two steaming to-go cups from The Daily Grind.

The sight of him—worn jeans, a soft-looking cotton button-down rolled to his elbows, thatinfuriatinglyperfect hair slightly mussed from a long day—makes my stomach flip.

Oh, this was a mistake.

He straightens when he sees me, his grin widening as his gaze drops to my bag. “So youarecoming.”