Page 1 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter One

Richard

The GPS chimes "You have arrived" in its robotic voice, but I already know.

I roll the rental car to a stop at the empty intersection, engine idling. The air conditioning wheezes, struggling against the Tennessee humidity that presses through the cracked window.

My phone lights up on the passenger seat. Rebecca. For the billionth time.

You can’t run forever.

I flip it face down without answering. The divorce papers are finalized, ink dry, but she’s still carving her demands into my life like initials in a jail cell wall.

I take the turn too sharp, and the tires catch gravel.

The town unfolds in front of me—neat brick storefronts, a diner with a flickering neon OPEN sign, an old man on a bench feeding pigeons. It’s nothing like New York. No sirens, no steam rising from grates, no impatient crowds.

Just slow, sticky Southern time. I remember how much I liked the pace of the South when I was in school at UT in Knoxville. So different from New York.

And just what I need right now.

Temporary locum position, I remind myself.

Just filling in at the clinic until Holloway finds someone permanent.

Just long enough to remember what it’s like to breathe without Rebecca’s lawyers and my parents’ expectations and the weight of a marriage that collapsed under its own emptiness.

I pull into the parking lot of The Blue Pine Inn. The motel paint is a rather faded gray, and the vacancy sign buzzes like an angry insect.

Ah, my temporary home.

The key the clerk hands me is attached to a plastic tag shaped like a guitar. "Nashville’s just down the road," she says, as if I might need reminding.

I drop my bag on the floral bedspread and stare out the window.

Somewhere in this town, Penny Morgan is living her life.

Twelve years since I last saw her. Twelve years since I walked away from her in a Knoxville dorm parking lot, telling myself that going to medical school was more important than love.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Holloway.

Clinic opens at 7:00. Don’t be late.

I exhale.

Tomorrow, I step back into her world.

The Mount Juliet Medical Center smells like antiseptic and cheap air freshener—a cloying fake lemon trying to mask the underlying sweat and sickness.

My dress shoes click too loudly against the linoleum, announcing me like an outsider. I’m going to have to change that.

The receptionist—Darlene, according to her name tag—looks up from her computer, eyes widening slightly. "You must be Dr. Hogan."

"Just Richard," I say automatically. "I’m only here temporarily."

I’m not sure if that’s a lie, but it still tastes bitter on my tongue.

She grins, a little too knowing. "Oh, we’ve heard all about you."

I stiffen. From who? But I already know.

A nurse behind the desk leans over, whispering to another. I catch the tail end—"—the one Penny used to—" before they see me watching and fall silent.

Darlene slides a clipboard toward me. "Dr. Holloway’s in his office. He wants to see you.”

I take the paperwork, scanning the forms without reading them. My fingers tighten around the pen when I see the emergency contact line. In New York, it would’ve been Rebecca. Now, it’s blank.

I nod. "I’ll head there now."

As I walk down the hall, my pulse hammers in my throat.

The door to Holloway’s office is half-open, the faint rubbing alcohol and menthol ointment leaking into the hallway. I knock once before stepping inside.

The man behind the desk looks up, his salt-and-pepper beard trimmed close, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

The walls are lined with framed diplomas and faded photos—Holloway shaking hands with mayors, Holloway holding a fishing trophy, Holloway standing beside a much younger version of himself at what looks like a medical school graduation.

"Dr. Hogan," he says, not quite smiling. "Heard you’d arrived."

"Richard, please." I step forward, hand extended. His grip is firm, his palm rough in a way that suggests he still gardens or chops wood in his free time.

"You’re younger than I expected," he says, sitting back down. "Penny made you sound like some silver-haired genius when she talked about you."

My stomach drops. She talked about me?

Holloway chuckles at my expression. "Relax. That was years ago. These days, she just glares when someone brings you up."

I force a laugh, but it lands hollow.

He slides a file across the desk. "Mr. Higgins. Sixty-eight, rotator cuff tear after a fall. Surgery was clean, but he’s stiff as a board. Penny’s handling his rehab, but I want you to take a look—make sure there’s nothing we missed."

I open the file, scanning the notes. My fingers tighten imperceptibly when I see her handwriting—neat, precise, with those looping g’s she never could break from her college note-taking.

"Problem?" Holloway asks.

"No," I say too quickly. "Just reviewing."

He leans back, studying me. "You two have history. I’m not blind."

I don’t answer.

"Just keep it professional in my clinic," he says finally. "Exam Two. She’s in there now."

I stand, the chair scraping loud against the floor.

"Oh, and Richard?" Holloway adds as I reach the door. "Welcome to Mount Juliet."

The hallway in front of me stretches too long, the fluorescents buzzing like wasps. Exam Two’s door is slightly ajar.

I hear her before I see her.

"No, Mr. Higgins, like this—"

That voice. Lower than I remember, but still warm, still laced with that faint Southern cadence she tried so hard to lose in college.

I knock once. Push the door open.

And suddenly, there she is.

Penny Morgan, in blue scrubs, her bronze hair pulled back into a ponytail, a few strands escaping to curl at the nape of her neck. She’s demonstrating an arm rotation for an elderly man on the exam table, her movements fluid, confident.

Then she turns.

Time stops.

Her eyes—green as the hills outside Knoxville—widen. Her lips part. For one suspended second, we’re twenty-two again, standing in her dorm parking lot in the rain, her voice breaking as she asks me not to go.

Then it’s over.

"Richard." My name in her mouth is careful, neutral.

"Penny." I sound hoarse.

Mr. Higgins looks between us. "You two know each other?"

"We went to school together," she says, turning back to him, her smile never reaching her eyes. "A long time ago."

I step forward, facing the patient, clutching the file like a shield. "I’m Richard Hogan. Dr. Holloway asked me to consult."

Penny nods, stepping aside. But I don’t miss the way her fingers tighten around her clipboard, the way her shoulders tense as I brush past her to examine Mr. Higgins.

The room smells like antiseptic and the vanilla lotion she always used.

Twelve years.

And just like that, I’m drowning in her again.

The exam table paper crinkles as Mr. Higgins shifts under my hands. His shoulder is warm beneath my fingers, the scar from surgery still pink and raised. I rotate his arm gently, feeling the catch in the joint.

"Does this hurt?"

"Only when I breathe heavily," he grumbles, then winks at Penny. "Which, at my age, is all the damn time."

Penny huffs a laugh—that same quiet exhale she used to make when I’d tell terrible jokes in the library at UT. The sound hooks up under my ribs.

I keep my eyes on Mr. Higgins’ shoulder. "Range of motion is limited, but the repair looks solid. Just needs consistent rehab."

"That’s what I’ve been telling him," Penny says. Her voice is professional, but I hear the edge. "If he’d actually do his home exercises—"

"Now, darlin’, don’t you start," Mr. Higgins interrupts. He looks between us, eyes sharp despite his age. "You two sweet on each other back in college?"

My fingers slip on the stethoscope.

Penny’s cheeks flush pink. "Mr. Higgins—"

"Because I may be old, but I ain’t blind." He grins, revealing a crooked front tooth. "The way you’re both not-lookin’ at each other? That’s a story right there."

The air in the room thickens. Penny busies herself with adjusting the shoulder brace. I clear my throat.

"Let’s focus on your recovery," I say, too stiff.

When I reach for the pen in my pocket, Penny moves at the same time to hand me hers. Our fingers brush. We both recoil like we’ve been burned.

The pen clatters to the floor.

Mr. Higgins whistles low. "Yep. Definitely a story."

The parking lot asphalt radiates heat even as the sun dips behind the clinic roof. I lean against my rental car, tie loosened, one of Holloway’s files crumpled in my grip.

My phone buzzes. Rebecca again.

You didn’t tell me you were leaving the state.

I thumb the screen off. The cicadas scream in the trees, a sound so different from New York’s constant hum.

Through the clinic’s front window, I see Penny locking up. She pauses at the door, keys in hand, shoulders slumped for just a second—like she’s been holding her breath all day.

Then she turns, but I don’t think she sees me sitting in the lot.

My phone rings. Holloway’s name flashes, but I reject the call.

The lot is empty except for the moths batting against the flickering streetlight.

I start the engine. Drive away.

But I already know—

This town isn’t done with me yet.

And I’m not done with her.