Page 23 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Nineteen

Richard

If there’s a better sight in the world than Penny Morgan in the kitchen, barefoot, hair still a little messy from sleep, humming off-key as she spoons coffee into the machine, I don’t know what it is.

I lean against the doorway and just watch her for a minute, soaking it in.

She’s wearing one of my old t-shirts, one that she stole from me when we were in college, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, and every so often she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, still half dancing to a song only she can hear.

The morning light spills through the windows, catching the copper threads in her hair, making her look almost untouchable. Sacred, in a way she’d laugh at me for thinking.

It’s not just that she’s beautiful—though she is, painfully so.

It’s the way she exists so fully in a space, so alive and unafraid. It’s the way her forehead scrunches a little when she counts scoops of coffee under her breath.

It’s the way she mutters “perfect” to herself when she finds the right mug, as if even this small thing deserves care.

God, I love her.

I love her so much it feels like it’s stitched into the lining of my bones, like it’s something I was built for, whether I understood it back then or not.

She glances up and catches me staring. Her smile is soft, a little shy, like she’s still getting used to the idea of me looking at her like that and meaning every goddamn second of it.

“Coffee’s almost ready,” she says, lifting an eyebrow like maybe I’ve lost my mind standing there gawking at her.

“Take your time,” I murmur, unable to keep the grin off my face. “Worth the wait.”

She rolls her eyes but blushes, turning back to pour the water into the reservoir.

My phone buzzes against the kitchen counter where I left it.

For a second, I think about ignoring it. Nothing could possibly be more important than this moment, this woman, this life I’m just starting to build with her.

But the second buzz makes something in my gut twist.

I pick it up.

It’s a text from Andrew Keller.

Not a greeting. No pleasantries.

Just one line:

"Rebecca’s not done. She’s planning something big. Watch your back."

I stare at the screen, heart dropping into my stomach.

Across the kitchen, Penny hums a few bars of a song I don’t recognize, oblivious to the world caving in just outside the circle of warmth we’ve managed to carve out for ourselves.

For one long, selfish moment, I want to put the phone face-down and pretend I never saw it.

Pretend we’re untouchable.

But the thing about building something real?

You have to fight to keep it.

I sit down at the table with Penny, trying to pretend the phone buzzing in my pocket isn’t burning a hole through me.

She sets two mugs down, one in front of me, one in front of herself, and then starts buttering toast with quick, efficient movements. She’s talking about something—some new patient who insisted on bringing his pet parrot to therapy—but my brain is only catching every other word.

Because all I can hear is Andrew’s text, looping in my head.

Rebecca’s not done.

I should tell her. Right now. No secrets. No hedging. No protecting her by keeping her in the dark, because that’s not love—that’s fear.

And after everything, after the hell I already put her through, I don’t want fear dictating a damn thing between us.

I clear my throat.

Penny glances up immediately, brow furrowed, half-lifting her coffee cup toward her lips but pausing when she sees my face. "What is it?"

I wrap my hands around the mug, staring into the steam like it’ll give me better words. "I got a text. From Andrew."

Her expression shutters instantly, suspicion snapping into place. "And?"

I take a breath. "He said Rebecca’s not finished. That she’s planning something big."

For a second, the only sound is the faint pop of the toaster behind her.

Then Penny sets her cup down very carefully, so carefully it’s almost scarier than if she’d slammed it. She leans back in her chair, arms crossed.

“Of course she is.”

I watch the anger gather behind her eyes, sharp and electric, the way a summer storm creeps up from the horizon—beautiful and dangerous all at once.

“She’s been quiet for too long,” Penny mutters, mostly to herself. "Too quiet."

I open my mouth to say something—maybe to apologize for bringing this into her morning—but she’s already moving, grabbing her phone off the counter with a determined flick of her wrist.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She scrolls through her contacts with the focus of a surgeon preparing for a high-risk operation. “Calling in the cavalry.”

Before I can ask who that means, she hits the call button.

The phone rings once, twice, and then Lena’s voice bursts through the speaker, loud enough I can hear every word.

“Penny? Babe? Finally! I’m SO glad you called.”

There’s no context, no hesitation. Like Lena’s been sitting by the phone for days, just waiting to unleash hell.

Penny grins, savage and satisfied, the expression lighting up her whole face.

“Yeah, I need dirt. Serious dirt. Anything you’ve heard about Rebecca Churchill. No filter.”

Lena practically cackles. “Ooooh girl. You are about to owe me so much pie.”

They chat for a few more minutes, Lena promising to call her back with details so juicy they might legally qualify as libel.

Penny hangs up looking calmer, fiercer, a little amused like she’s already planning three steps ahead.

I just sit there and watch her, completely and utterly in awe.

When she turns back to me, raising an eyebrow like she’s daring me to say something, I push my chair back and stand.

Before she can react, I’m crowding her gently against the counter, cupping her jaw and kissing her, slow and deep and grateful.

"You’re amazing," I murmur against her lips.

She shrugs, like it’s nothing, but her cheeks go a little pink. "Got to fight fire with fire."

I kiss her again, smiling against her mouth because for the first time in a long time, I know—we know—we’re not fighting this alone anymore.

I meet my parents at the inn again after lunch, expecting more tight smiles and quiet judgment. I’m already preparing to grit my teeth through another polite ambush when my mother surprises me.

She stands as I approach, smoothing her skirt with a nervous flick of her hand, and says, “Richard, we owe you an apology.”

I blink.

My father clears his throat, glancing at her before nodding stiffly. “We didn’t mean to dismiss your choices. Or... Penny.”

My mother looks almost pained as she adds, “We want to be part of your life. Both of you. If you’ll let us.”

For a second, I just stare at them, the words not fully sinking in. I had prepared myself for another war. I hadn’t prepared for peace.

“I appreciate that,” I say, cautiously. “Really. But it’s not just about me anymore. I’ll have to ask Penny if she’s willing to forgive all this and move forward.”

“Of course,” my mother says quickly, almost too quickly. “We’d love to have dinner. No pressure. Just... a fresh start.”

I nod, feeling something inside me loosen just a little. Maybe things can get better. Maybe there’s a version of this future where Penny doesn’t always have to brace herself for the polite daggers my parents used to throw.

Maybe they’re trying. God knows I am.

We make tentative plans for later in the week—nothing concrete, nothing Penny is committed to yet—and after a few more minutes of polite conversation, I make my way out of the inn, feeling lighter than I have in days.

That feeling doesn’t last long.

I’m halfway across the parking lot when I hear footsteps behind me, quick and deliberate.

I turn just as Rebecca—perfect makeup, perfect hair, and a carefully crafted look of devastation—rushes toward me.

“Richard,” she gasps, her voice trembling just enough to be convincing. “Please, can we talk?”

Every instinct I have tells me to keep walking. But something in her face—something sharp under the softness—makes me pause.

“We don’t have anything to talk about,” I say, keeping my voice even.

She steps closer anyway, hands wringing in front of her like some tragic heroine. “Please. I just... I miss you. I made a mistake. You don’t belong here, Richard. You belong with me. In New York. In the life we built together.”

It smells wrong. Too practiced. Too desperate without being real.

I shake my head. “There’s nothing left between us.”

“There could be,” she says quickly, eyes shining. “I’m willing to forgive you.”

I bark out a bitter laugh before I can stop myself. “You forgive me? Rebecca, you lied about me in court. You dragged my name through the mud. You tried to ruin my life because you couldn’t stand the idea of not controlling it anymore. That’s really rich, Rebecca.”

Something flickers across her face—something cold and calculating—but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by trembling lips and wide, wet eyes.

“You’re cruel,” she whispers. “You were always cruel underneath.”

“And you were always a manipulative narcissistic bitch underneath your charity galas and perfect Instagram captions,” I snap, sharper than I intended. “I just didn’t see it soon enough.”

For a second, I think she’s going to slap me.

But instead, she straightens, brushes invisible lint from her jacket with a single, composed motion, and smiles.

Not the tearful, broken smile she was playing at five minutes ago.

A different smile.

A cold one.

Then she turns on her heel and walks away, heels clicking smartly against the pavement.

I stand there for a minute, fuming, watching her disappear into the lobby of the inn.

Something about it itches at the back of my mind.

Why the performance?

Why goad me into saying something cruel when there was no one around to hear it?

Unless...

Unless she didn’t need witnesses.

Unless she had something else.

The unease settles heavy in my gut.

I walk to my truck, the back of my neck prickling the whole way, but there’s nothing left to see.

Just the empty parking lot, the polite facade of the inn, and a gnawing sense that something very bad just got set in motion.

And I have no idea what it is.