Page 12 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Nine

Richard

The first hints of dawn paint the cabin in pale gold light, creeping across the hardwood floors like spilled honey.

I wake slowly, the kind of waking that comes from deep, uninterrupted sleep—the kind I haven't had in years.

Yesterday feels like a dream.

We spent the whole day just being. Wandering the trails behind the cabin, her hand brushing mine, then staying.

Penny pointed out wildflowers like she knew their names. We found a rusted old sign that once marked a trailhead and turned it into a private joke.

She beat me at cards on the back porch while the sun dipped low and bats started sweeping the tree line.

At one point, we ended up lying in a field of clover, talking about nothing and everything, the sky wide and quiet overhead.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. But it felt like peace.

And now, here we are—waking up to the kind of morning that makes you believe in second chances.

Penny is curled against me, her back pressed to my chest, one hand resting over mine where it rests against her stomach. Her breathing is steady and warm against my skin, her hair tickling my chin with every exhale.

I don't move. Don't even breathe too deeply.

I just lie here, memorizing the way the morning light catches the freckles scattered across her shoulders, the way her fingers twitch slightly in sleep like she's dreaming.

The cabin is silent except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant call of a mourning dove somewhere in the trees outside. The sheets smell like us—like pine soap and sweat and something uniquely Penny.

My arm has gone numb beneath her, but I don't care.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, my hospital pager sits silent in my bag. My phone, turned off and buried under a pile of clothes, can't reach me here.

For this one, perfect moment, there is no Dr. Hogan. No ex-wives. No malpractice suits.

Just this.

Just us.

Penny stirs, her body stretching against mine in a way that makes my breath catch. Her fingers tighten briefly around mine before she stills again, sighing contentedly.

I press a kiss to the nape of her neck, so light she won't feel it.

The clock on the bedside table reads 6:47 AM.

Slowly, carefully, I extract myself from the tangle of limbs and sheets, pausing when Penny makes a soft noise of protest. But she just burrows deeper into the pillows, her hair fanning out across my vacant spot like she's claiming it.

The hardwood is cool under my bare feet as I pad to the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror is unfamiliar—hair sticking up in every direction, beard scruffier than usual, the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips.

There's a faint red mark on my collarbone where Penny bit me last night, and the memory sends heat curling low in my stomach.

The shower turns on with a groan of pipes, the water taking a full minute to warm up. I step under the spray, letting it sluice away the last remnants of sleep.

By the time I emerge, toweling my hair dry, I realize I’m hungry. I throw on some sweat pants and go out into the kitchen, starting the coffee and putting some bacon in a fry pan on the stove.

In a few minutes Penny joins me, probably drawn by the smell of freshly brewed coffee and bacon.

She perches on the counter in nothing but my t-shirt from last night and her leggings, and I hand her a steaming mug.

"Morning," she says, voice still rough with sleep.

I bracket her thighs with my hands as I lean in to kiss her. She tastes like sleep and coffee, her lips warm and soft under mine.

"You were supposed to stay in bed," I murmur against her mouth.

She hums, tangling her fingers in my damp hair. "Missed you."

The words, so simple, so effortless, hit me square in the chest. I kiss her again, deeper this time, until the coffee is forgotten and her mug is set hastily aside.

The bacon is burning.

"Shit," I mutter, turning to rescue breakfast.

Penny laughs, hopping down to help, mixing some pancake batter and getting out the griddle, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. She moves around the small kitchen like she's been here forever, grabbing plates and forks without having to ask where they're kept.

It's domestic. It's easy.

It's everything I never knew I needed.

The truck's cab is warm with mid-morning sunlight as we pack up the last of our things.

Penny tosses her duffel into the backseat with considerably less care than she'd used when packing it, the straps dangling precariously close to a half-empty water bottle.

"You sure we got everything?" she asks, squinting back at the cabin as I lock the front door.

I jingle the keys. "Unless you wanted to take the hot tub with us."

She snorts, sliding into the passenger seat. "Tempting. But I think Mrs. Delaney would notice if we showed up with a Jacuzzi in your truck bed."

The engine rumbles to life, the sound shattering the peaceful quiet we'd grown accustomed to over the weekend.

Penny immediately reaches for the radio, scrolling through static-filled stations until she lands on something folksy and acoustic. The singer croons about highways and heartbreak as we bump down the gravel driveway, the cabin shrinking in the rearview mirror.

For a while, neither of us speaks.

The road unwinds before us, a twisting ribbon of asphalt cutting through endless stretches of pine and oak. Sunlight flickers through the canopy overhead, dappling the dashboard with shifting patterns of light.

Penny's fingers tap an absent rhythm against her thigh, her other hand resting on the center console, palm-up. An invitation.

I take it without hesitation, lacing our fingers together. Her skin is warm, her thumb brushing idly over my knuckles.

"You're quiet," she says after a while, turning her face toward the window. The sunlight catches the gold flecks in her eyes when she glances back at me.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

How this feels like the end of something before it's even begun.

"Patient charts," I lie, squeezing her hand. "Holloway probably screwed them all up."

She hums, unconvinced, but lets it drop. The song changes to something slower, a melancholy guitar riff filling the space between us.

We pass a roadside farm stand, its colorful signs advertising fresh peaches and homemade jam. Penny sits up slightly.

"Stop," she says suddenly.

I brake harder than intended, the tires kicking up gravel. "What? What's wrong?"

She's already unbuckling. "We need jam."

"Jam."

"Homemade jam, Richard." She points emphatically at the crooked sign. "It's the rules."

I stare at her. "Since when are there rules about jam?"

"Since right now." She hops out before I can argue, her sandals crunching on the loose stones.

By the time I catch up, she's already deep in conversation with the elderly woman manning the stand, sampling what appears to be her fourth variety of preserves.

"—the blackberry is good," Penny's saying, "but I think the peach has more—oh, here, try this."

She turns, pressing a small spoon to my lips before I can protest. The jam is sweet and tangy, bursting with summer flavor.

"Well?" she demands.

I swallow. "We're getting both, aren't we?"

She grins, victorious.

Back in the truck, our haul includes two jars of jam, a loaf of still-warm zucchini bread, and a handful of wildflowers the woman insisted we take "for the road."

Penny arranges them carefully in an empty water bottle, her tongue poking out in concentration as she tries to keep them upright.

The moment is so perfectly, painfully normal that something in my chest tightens.

Penny catches me staring. "What?"

"Nothing." I start the engine. "Just thinking how much Rebecca would hate this."

The laugh that bursts out of her is loud and unguarded, the sound bouncing off the truck's windows. "Oh, my God, she'd be miserable."

We spend the next twenty minutes gleefully imagining Rebecca's hypothetical suffering—her disdain for the "unsanitary" jam samples, her horror at the lack of cell service, the way she'd undoubtedly complain about the humidity ruining her hair.

It's easy. It's fun.

And then Penny's phone chimes.

The mood shatters like dropped glass.

She digs it out of her bag, her smile fading as she reads the screen. "It's Lena."

I don't ask. Don't need to.

Lena: URGENT. Rebecca was at the clinic asking about you. Also, Bijou ate your azaleas??

Penny groans, dropping her head back against the seat. "And… we're back."

The "Welcome to Mount Juliet" sign appears around the next bend, its cheerful lettering at odds with the sudden tension in the cab.

I reach across the console, lacing our fingers together again. Her grip is tight, like she's bracing for impact.

"Rules still apply," I remind her softly.

She exhales, squeezing back. "Until month three."

The first houses appear on the horizon, then the gas station, then the clinic.

With every mile, the weekend feels further away, slipping through our fingers like smoke.

But when I pull up to her bungalow and cut the engine, Penny doesn't immediately move to leave. She sits there, staring at her front door like it's a battlefield.

Then she turns to me, her expression equal parts determination and fear.

"Whatever happens," she says, "we handle it together. Okay?"

I bring our joined hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Together."

It's a promise. A vow.

I'll burn the whole damn town down before I break it.

The truck idles at the curb outside Penny's place, the engine's low rumble the only sound between us.

Through the windshield, I watch Mrs. Delaney pretend to water her hydrangeas while blatantly staring in our direction. Bijou dances excited circles on the porch, her tiny paws skittering across the wooden planks.

Penny hasn't moved.

Her fingers remain laced with mine on the center console, her grip tightening every time she glances down at her phone screen. Lena's text glares back at us:

Lena: Rebecca showed the clinic staff some legal docs about a malpractice case? WTF is she talking about?

The air leaves my lungs in a slow, controlled exhale. I'd known this would come eventually—just not like this.

Not here. Not now, when we're still warm from the weekend, when Penny's hair still smells like the cedar-scented shampoo from the cabin.

Penny turns to me, her green eyes searching mine. "Richard?"

I kill the engine. The silence that follows is deafening.

Without speaking, we gather Penny’s things and walk into the house.

Her kitchen smells like lemon cleaner and the faint herbal scent of the basil plant on the windowsill.

I brace my hands against the cool tile countertop, focusing on the way the grout lines dig into my palms—anything to ground myself before diving into waters I've avoided for years.

Penny leans against the refrigerator, arms crossed. She doesn't push. Just waits.

"It was three years ago," I begin, staring at the faint coffee stain on her linoleum. "Eleven-year-old boy. Pediatric spinal fusion—routine procedure for his scoliosis."

My throat tightens around the memory: the OR's sterile brightness, the rhythmic beep of the monitors, the way the anesthesiologist—Andrew's cousin, of all people—had smirked when I told him I wanted to double-check his calculations.

"The anesthesia dosage was off. Not by much, but enough." My fingers curl against the counter. "The kid coded on the table. We got him back, but there was nerve damage. Partial paralysis in his left leg."

Penny's sharp inhale cuts through the kitchen.

"The family sued everyone—the hospital, the anesthesiologist, me. As they should have."

I finally look up, meeting her gaze. "But the hospital's legal team.

.. they made it about surgical error instead of the anesthesia.

Used my incision timing as a kind of smokescreen.

Had three 'expert witnesses' swear the nerve damage couldn't have been from the hypoxia that resulted from the wrong dose of anesthesia. "

The bitterness rises like bile. I can still see the way Daniel's father had looked at me when the verdict was read—like I'd reached into his chest and torn out his still-beating heart.

Penny's face has gone pale. "You won."

"Technically." The word tastes like ash. "Andrew’s cousin, the anesthesiologist, lost his license. The family's settlement barely covered two years of physical therapy. And I..."

I push off the counter, suddenly unable to stand still. The memories come in jagged fragments:

Rebecca's champagne toast to "beating the ambulance chasers," Andrew's backslapping congratulations, everyone celebrating ”the win”.

Penny's hand finds mine, her fingers cool against my clammy skin. "That's why you left."

"Part of it." My thumb traces the ridge of her knuckles. "Rebecca called leaving my job and taking this temporary locum position 'career suicide.' But I felt like taking a slower pace was the only way I could keep practicing medicine with a clear conscience. I still don’t know where I’ll go from here if Holloway decides to hire someone else here permanently. I’ve thrown my hat in the ring for the job, but I think I’m on a bit of a ‘probation’ with him, so we’ll see. "

A tear slips down Penny's cheek. I catch it with my thumb, leaving a glistening trail across her freckles.

"And now she's using it against you." Penny's voice shakes with a fury that makes my chest ache. "Here. With people who trust you."

Bijou whines at our feet, her tiny body wedging between our legs as if sensing the storm brewing.

Outside, Mrs. Delaney's voice carries through the open window: "Y'all gonna kiss and make up or do I need to call a priest?"

Penny barks a wet laugh, swiping at her face. The motion sends her weekend-braid tumbling loose over one shoulder. "I'll handle her. You need to get to the clinic before Holloway has an aneurysm."

She reaches into our grocery bag from the trip and pulls out the jar of blackberry jam we'd bought together—the one from the sweet old lady at the roadside stand. Presses it into my hands with a firmness that brooks no argument.

"Tell them the truth," she says. "The whole town will know by supper anyway."

As I step onto the porch, Mrs. Delaney grins at me over the rim of her sweet tea glass.

"Malpractice, huh?"

She sets the glass down with deliberate slowness. "Bet that story gets real interesting when I tell it at bingo tonight."

I flip her off.

Her cackle follows me all the way to the truck, a stark counterpoint to the weight settling over my shoulders.