Page 4 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Four

Penny

The morning sun slants through my bedroom window, painting stripes of gold across the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. I stand in front of the full length mirror, holding up two different outfits like they hold the meaning of life.

"Okay," Lena says from where she's sprawled across my bed, crunching loudly on a handful of pretzels.

"The shorts say, 'I'm fun and approachable.' The dress says, 'I definitely didn't spend thirty minutes picking this out because a certain locum doctor might see me today.'"

I glare at her reflection. "I'm just trying not to melt at the festival. It's ninety degrees out there."

"Mhmm." She rolls onto her stomach, propping her chin in her hands. "And the fact that Richard Hogan is working the first aid tent has nothing to do with it?"

My face goes hot. "No. It does not."

"Liar."

I throw the dress at her head. She catches it with a grin.

The truth is, I've known about Richard volunteering at the festival since yesterday, when Mrs. Delaney "happened to mention it" no less than three times while bringing over zucchini bread. Like I needed the reminder that he's out there being all heroic and handsome while I'm—

"Earth to Penny." Lena snaps her fingers. "You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?"

"The 'staring into space while thinking about Dr. Tall-Dark-and-Moody' thing."

I flip her off and turn back to the mirror, holding the denim shorts against my waist. They're my favorite pair, the ones that make my legs look miles long. Not that I care.

"Shorts it is," I mutter, reaching for my favorite crop top.

Lena whoops. "Knew it."

"It's practical!"

"Sure, Jan."

I ignore her tongue-in-cheek reference to the old The Brady Bunch sitcom, and focus on applying mascara with steady hands. Not that I'm putting in extra effort. Just... basic hygiene. Normal grooming. Absolutely not because Richard used to say he loved my eyelashes—

A knock at the front door interrupts my thoughts.

"Expecting someone?" Lena waggles her eyebrows.

"Shut up." I pad barefoot down the hall, Bijou skittering ahead of me with excited yips.

Mrs. Delaney stands on my porch, holding a basket of muffins and wearing a smile that's far too innocent.

"Morning, sugar! Brought you some blueberry muffins for the festival."

Bijou immediately plants her tiny paws on Mrs. Delaney's shin, tail wagging furiously.

Traitor.

"That's so sweet, thank you." I take the basket, the scent of warm blueberries making my stomach growl.

"Oh my, aren't you looking pretty today!" Mrs. Delaney's eyes sweep over my outfit. "Those shorts are just darling."

I resist the urge to cover my legs. "Thanks. Just threw something on."

"Mm…hmm." Her eyes twinkle. "You know, I saw Dr. Hogan setting up the first aid tent earlier. Such a nice young man. So... helpful."

I choke on nothing.

Lena appears behind me, saving me from having to respond. "Mrs. D! Those muffins smell amazing."

"Why, thank you, dear." She pats Lena's arm. "There's plenty for both of you. And maybe enough to bring by the first aid tent later..."

I nearly drop the basket.

Lena smirks. "What a great idea."

"Gotta run!" I say too loudly, backing into the house. "Thanks for the muffins!"

Mrs. Delaney's knowing chuckle follows me inside. I slam the door with my hip and round on Lena. "I hate this town."

She plucks a muffin from the basket. "No, you don't."

Bijou dances at my feet, sniffing the air greedily. I break off a piece of muffin for her, then take a huge bite of my own.

The blueberries burst sweet and tart on my tongue, and despite myself, I wonder if Richard still likes blueberry muffins.

If he remembers the time we stole a whole tray from the dining hall and ate them in bed, staining the sheets purple with juice and—

"Penny." Lena waves a hand in front of my face. "You're doing the thing again."

I scowl and shove the rest of the muffin in my mouth. "Let's go before I change my mind."

As we step out into the already-sweltering morning, the sounds of the festival setting up drift down the street—the twang of someone testing a microphone, the clatter of booth construction, the occasional burst of laughter.

My stomach twists. Somewhere in that crowd, Richard is waiting.

And for the first time in twelve years, I have no idea what to say to him.

The town square buzzes with energy, packed with families and the scent of funnel cakes.

Bluegrass music twangs from the makeshift stage as I weave through the crowd, Lena trailing behind me with a giant turkey leg in each hand.

"Slow down, Speedy," she mumbles around a mouthful of meat. "We've got all day to accidentally-on-purpose bump into McDreamy."

"I'm not—" I start to protest, then stop dead in my tracks.

There he is.

Richard stands under the red-and-white-striped first aid tent, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal those stupidly perfect forearms.

He's talking to little Tommy Stephens, kneeling down to eye level as he wraps the boy's scraped knee with careful fingers.

The sight sends an unwelcome pang through my chest—he used to bandage my blisters after intramural soccer games with that same focused frown.

"Wow," Lena breathes beside me. "He's like a Hallmark movie come to life."

I elbow her hard in the ribs just as Richard looks up. His gaze locks onto mine like a heat-seeking missile.

For a suspended second, the festival noise fades.

Then Tommy tugs on Richard's sleeve, breaking the spell.

"Earth to lover girl," Lena sing-songs, shoving the second turkey leg into my hands. "Fuel up. We've got festival games to dominate."

I tear my eyes away, taking an aggressive bite. "I'm here for the pie contest. Nothing else."

"Sure, Jan."

We're halfway through beating the high school football team at ring toss when the mayor's voice crackles over the PA system:

"Time for our celebrity dunk tank! First up—Dr. Richard Hogan, all the way from New York City!"

My turkey leg hits the ground and I notice the sky darkening, as if a storm is not far off.

Lena's grin turns feral. "Oh, this I gotta see."

The crowd parts as Richard climbs onto the platform shirtless, in athletic shorts that should be illegal. Water droplets cling to his legs from his previous dunk, and I suddenly can't remember how to breathe.

"Three throws for five dollars!" the booth operator announces. "Who's first?"

Lena doesn't hesitate. She slaps down a twenty. "Penny's taking four turns."

"What? No!" I hiss, but she's already pushing me forward.

Richard's eyebrows shoot up when he sees me. "Well, well. Morgan here to test her arm?"

The familiar challenge in his voice sparks something deep in my gut. I pick up the first softball, rolling it between my palms. "You sure you can handle this, Hogan?"

His smirk is all teeth. "Always."

The first two throws miss spectacularly, sending the crowd into groans. Richard's laugh rings out across the square. "Getting rusty, Pen?"

I narrow my eyes, adjusting my stance. The third ball hits the target dead-center.

The platform drops.

Richard plunges into the tank with a magnificent splash, surfacing with his dark hair plastered to his forehead. The crowd goes wild as he shakes water from his face like a golden retriever.

"Rematch!" he calls, climbing out with unfairly graceful movements.

Lena wolf-whistles. "Damn. He's hot even when he's drowning."

I'm saved from responding by the pie contest announcement. I desert my remaining softballs, opting to move to the pies.

Richard's gaze burns into my back as I flee toward the dessert tables, my pulse hammering in my throat.

The next hour passes in a blur of flour and laughter. I'm elbow-deep in whipped cream when a familiar voice murmurs in my ear:

"Blueberry. Just like I remember."

Richard's breath is warm against my neck. I spin to find him inches away, a smear of pie filling on his stupidly perfect chin.

Without thinking, I reach up and wipe it away with my thumb.

We both freeze.

His stubble scrapes against my skin, rough and familiar. The air between us crackles.

"Still messy," I mutter, snatching my hand back.

Richard's eyes darken. "Still bossy."

A crash of thunder splits the sky and I see the clouds have gathered further, the darkening sky appearing ominous now.

The first fat raindrops hit like bullets as the tornado warning siren’s wail cuts through the festival’s cheerful noise.

For a heartbeat, the crowd stands frozen—children clutching cotton candy, midway games abandoned, the bluegrass band’s last chord hanging dissonant in the air.

Then chaos erupts.

"Everyone to the Community Center! We need to take cover in the basement!" The mayor’s voice crackles over the PA, half-drowned by another roll of thunder. "Now, now, NOW!"

Lena grabs my arm, her nails digging into my skin. "Pen—"

"Go!" I shove her toward the nearest shelter. "Get Mrs. Delaney!"

I look up and see that the sky has become a sickly greenish purple ceiling of puffy dark clouds that resemble nothing more than upside down mushrooms, swirling slowly like a malevolent force as it seems to push down from above.

I sprint against the tide of fleeting people.

The wind snatches at my clothes, whipping my ponytail sideways. Somewhere in the cacophony, a child’s terrified scream rises above the rest.

I spot little Tommy Stevens frozen near the dunk tank, his eyes wide with panic.

"Tommy!" I skid to my knees in front of him. "Where’s your mom?"

He points wordlessly toward the parking lot, where cars are gridlocked in a frantic exodus.

The air pressure drops suddenly, making my ears pop.

Then I see it.

A wide black funnel cloud churns on the horizon, chewing up trees like matchsticks.

My blood turns to ice.

A strong hand closes around my bicep. "MOVE!"

Richard.

He scoops Tommy into one arm and drags me with the other as the wind howls like a living thing. Debris pelts our backs—popcorn boxes, festival flyers, someone’s lost shoe.

The Community Center doors loom ahead, where Lena waves frantically. "HURRY!"

The world narrows to the slap of our shoes on wet pavement, Tommy’s whimpers against Richard’s shoulder, the terrifying groan of metal twisting behind us.

We’re five feet from safety when the roof of the dunk tank tears free and cartwheels across our path.

Richard shoves me forward. "GO!"

I stumble through the doors just as the sky opens in a deafening roar. The last thing I see before the doors slam shut is Richard curling his body around Tommy’s small frame as the storm swallows them both on the other side.

Darkness.

The tornado roars toward us like a freight train possessed by demons, its howling vortex tearing the air apart with a deafening, otherworldly shriek that makes speech impossible.

Then—seconds later.

A pounding at the door.

Lena and I heave it open just enough for Richard to come crashing through, Tommy still clutched to his chest. They’re both soaked, breathing hard, but alive.

The door bolts behind them as the building shudders under the storm’s fury.

In the dim emergency lighting, Richard’s eyes find mine. His hand reaches out in the darkness, fingers brushing my wrist—

A sound like the world ending shakes the walls.

And then the lights go out.