Page 3 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Three

Richard

The Mount Juliet Medical Center hums with the quiet chaos of a Monday morning—nurses shuffling charts, the receptionist arguing with an insurance company, the sharp scent of antiseptic clinging to the air.

I’m hunched over the nurses’ station, scribbling notes on a patient file, when the sound of laughter cuts through the monotony.

Her laughter.

I don’t have to look up to know it’s Penny. There’s a warmth to it, an ease that hasn’t changed in twelve years. It’s the kind of laugh that used to make me drop everything just to hear it.

Now, it just makes my grip tighten on my pen.

I force myself to keep writing, but the words blur. The laughter stops abruptly, and I know she’s seen me.

Professional. Distant. Unaffected.

I glance up.

Penny stands frozen at the end of the hall, her physical therapy folder clutched to her chest

Her scrubs—dark blue today—cling to her in a way that should be illegal, and her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping to curl at her temples.

For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other.

Then she snaps into motion, striding toward me with the kind of forced calm that screams ‘I am absolutely not calm’.

“Richard.” Her voice is clipped, polite. “I need to go over Mr. Higgins’ progress with you.”

“Right.” I straighten and slide the file toward her. “His range of motion is improving, but he’s not progressing as quickly as he should be. I suspect he’s not doing his exercises at home consistently.”

She nods, eyes fixed on the paperwork. “Yes. I’ve adjusted his exercises and spoken to him again about the importance of continuing through with the program at home between his PT visits to me. If he takes my advice to heart, he should be less stiff by next week.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Silence.

Her pen taps against the clipboard—tap tap tap—a nervous rhythm I remember from late-night study sessions, from the moment before she’d blurt out something brutally honest.

Now, she just chews her lower lip.

God, she still does that.

A memory flashes, unbidden:

Penny beneath me in her narrow dorm bed, her lips swollen from kissing, her hair fanned out over the pillow. She bites her lower lip as my hands slide up her thighs, her breath hitching—

“Dr. Hogan?”

A nurse’s voice yanks me back to the present.

I blink. Penny’s staring at me now, her brow furrowed.

“You okay?” she asks, and there’s the faintest hint of concern beneath the frost.

“Fine.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. I clear my throat. “Just—thinking about the patient.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, like she doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t push. “Right. Well. Let me know if you want to adjust his meds.”

She turns to leave, and I should let her. But—

“Penny.”

She pauses, glancing back.

I don’t know what I was going to say. I miss you. I’m sorry. I still think about you every damn day.

Instead, I just nod toward the file. “Good work with Higgins.”

Her expression flickers—something unreadable—before she schools it back into neutrality.

“Thanks.”

Then she’s gone, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.

I exhale, running a hand through my hair.

Get it together, Hogan.

The nurse—Darlene—grins at me from behind the desk. “Y’all are real professional.”

I give her a discouraging look and head to the break room.

She laughs as I walk away.

I pour myself a cup of break room coffee, bitter and burnt, and try not to think about the fact that Penny Morgan still smells exactly like heartbreak.

The fluorescent lights of the Piggly Wiggly hum overhead as I stare blankly at the frozen pizza selection. Three varieties of "meat lovers" and something called "breakfast pizza" that should be illegal. My stomach growls in protest.

This is rock bottom, I think, reaching for the least offensive option.

Then I hear it.

"Goddamn corporate giants putting the good granola on the top shelf."

That voice. Husky with irritation, edged with a laugh. She's already amused at her own frustration.

I turn slowly.

Penny stands two aisles over, glaring up at the organic foods section like it's personally offended her.

She's in black yoga pants and an oversized UT Knoxville sweatshirt, her hair piled into a haphazard bun. No makeup. Glasses perched on her nose.

She's never looked more beautiful.

I should walk away.

I don't.

"Need a hand?"

She startles so hard she nearly drops her basket. "Jesus—" Her eyes widen when she sees me. "Richard. Hi. I mean. No. I'm good."

I arch a brow at the shelf. "You planning to grow six inches in the next five seconds?"

Her lips twitch. "I was considering a running start."

"Let me save you the concussion."

I step closer, reaching up easily to grab the granola she'd been eyeing. Our bodies brush—her back against my chest for one electrifying second. I catch a whiff of her shampoo. Rose. Sunshine.

She spins immediately, clutching the box to her chest like a shield.

"Thanks." Her cheeks are pink.

I gesture to my cart—frozen pizza, bourbon, a single sad banana—and now throw in a box of the same granola. "Gourmet chef, obviously."

She snorts. "Living your best life, I see."

"Bachelorhood is a culinary adventure."

"Mm. More like a cry for help."

I grin despite myself. "You offering to cook for me?"

Her eyes narrow playfully. "Not even if you were dying."

"Ouch."

We fall into step together, drifting toward the produce section.

It's easy, somehow. Trading jabs about hospital food versus grocery store despair.

She tells me about Mr. Higgins' latest dramatics ("He tried to bribe me with moonshine to clear him for golf"), and I complain about the clinic's ancient X-ray machine ("I'm pretty sure it predates penicillin").

For a moment, it's like no time has passed at all.

Then we reach for the same apple at the same time.

Her hand grazes mine. Neither of us pulls away immediately.

The air between us crackles.

"Y'all back together?"

We spring apart like teenagers caught making out.

Mrs. Delaney stands there, grinning, Bijou's leash in one hand and a basket full of dog treats in the other.

Penny goes scarlet. "We were never— I mean, we're just—"

"Getting groceries," I finish smoothly.

Mrs. Delaney's eyes sparkle. "Mhmm."

Penny seizes her cart. "I should—check out. Right now."

She flees.

Mrs. Delaney watches her go, then turns to me. "You broke that girl's heart once."

I stiffen.

She pats my arm. "Don't do it again."

Then she walks off, Bijou trotting beside her, leaving me standing there with a bruised apple and the ghost of Penny's touch still burning on my skin.

The Blue Pine Inn's neon sign flickers outside my window, casting erratic shadows across the fading wallpaper.

I sit on the edge of the bed, bourbon swirling in a motel glass, the granola box Penny touched sitting on the nightstand like some sad shrine.

My phone lights up.

Rebecca: You're really working in that hick town?

I drain the glass, the burn down my throat less satisfying than it should be. The ice cubes clink as I pour another.

The room smells like cheap cleaning products and the ghost of Penny's rose shampoo.

Then I’m back in Penny's dorm room, Knoxville, senior year.

Rain patters against the window as Penny traces the Columbia acceptance letter with trembling fingers.

"You're really going?" Her voice is small, trying so hard to be brave. I pull her into my lap.

"Just for med school," I promise against her hair.

"I'll come back."

She turns to face me, green eyes glistening. "You'll forget me." I kiss her, slow and deep.

"Never."

The lie tastes bitter now.

I pick up my phone, thumbs hovering over composing a new message:

To Penny: Remember when you called bourbon "old man whiskey"? I finally get it.

I stare at the words. Delete them. Type them again.

The bourbon isn't working.

Neither is the distance.

Outside, a car door slams. Laughter floats through the thin walls—some happy couple returning to their room.

I toss back the drink and reach for the granola box. The cardboard is smooth under my fingers.

Twelve years.

A divorce.

A thousand miles from everything I thought I wanted.

And the only thing that feels real is the way Penny's breath hitched when I reached past her in the grocery aisle.

My phone buzzes again.

Rebecca: We need to talk.

I turn it face down on the nightstand.

The granola box stays.