Page 7 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Six

Penny

The first thing I notice is the warmth.

The sunlight hits my body on the bed at just the right angle to warm me up to discomfort.

Oh, God.

Last night wasn’t a dream.

I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that might undo the last twelve hours. But the evidence is undeniable—the soreness between my thighs, the bite mark on my shoulder, the way my sheets smell like him.

Richard Hogan was in my bed.

Again.

I grab the first clothes I find— a long sleep shirt in the top dresser drawer—and yank it on before padding into the kitchen.

The house is too quiet, the only sound Bijou’s nails clicking against the hardwood as she trots after me.

Coffee. I need coffee before I deal with this.

But when I turn the corner, the scent of freshly brewed coffee already fills the air.

And there he is.

Leaning against my counter, shirtless, in nothing but his boxer briefs. Steam curls from the mug in his hands, and his hair is a mess, like he’s already run his fingers through it a dozen times.

My mouth goes dry.

He looks up, mid-sip, and freezes.

For a long moment, we just stare at each other.

Then—

"You’re awake," he says, voice rough with sleep.

I cross my arms. "You’re in my kitchen."

A smirk tugs at his lips. "Fair."

The silence stretches, thick with everything we’re not saying.

I should be furious. I should kick him out. I should—

God, he looks good.

The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. Sunlight spills across his chest, highlighting the planes of muscle, the dusting of dark hair, the scars I used to trace with my tongue. My fingers twitch with the memory.

Richard sets his mug down. "Penny—"

"Don’t." I hold up a hand. "Just… don’t."

He nods, but his eyes don’t leave mine. They’re darker than I remember, full of something I can’t name.

Bijou chooses that moment to trot over and sniff his ankles. Traitor.

Richard bends to scratch behind her ears. "Hey, little lady."

"She’s not yours," I say automatically.

He glances up, a challenge in his gaze. "Neither are you."

The words hang between us, sharp as a blade.

I swallow hard.

Then I turn and walk away.

I make it exactly three and a half steps down the hallway before Richard's fingers curl around my wrist.

"Hold on—are we just going to pretend last night didn't happen?"

His voice is equal parts amused and offended. "Because I have bruises in places that say otherwise."

I whirl around, my stupid sleep shirt fluttering around my thighs. "Oh, my God, keep your voice down! Mrs. Delaney's probably got her good ear pressed to the wall already."

As if on cue, the neighbor's sprinklers kick on outside. We both freeze.

Richard's mouth twitches. "...That's suspiciously timed."

I jab a finger at his bare chest. "This is exactly why we need ground rules."

"Ground rules," he repeats, deadpan. "For the apocalyptic sex we just had."

"It wasn't—" My face ignites. "We got carried away in a post-tornado adrenaline crash! That's a documented phenomenon!"

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, looking unfairly good for someone who spent half the night rebuilding the town and the other half rebuilding our sexual history. "Uh-huh. And what's the scientific term for when you—"

"Moving on." I clap my hands. "If we're doing this—"

"If?"

"—then we're doing it right. No love-bombing. No grand gestures. And absolutely no showing up at my job with—"

"—a boom box over my head. Yeah, yeah, you've made the Say Anything references very clear over the years—"

"—because," I steamroll over him, "the last time we tried this, you left for New York and married a human icicle in couture."

The second it's out, I regret it. Richard's smile vanishes.

Shit.

Silence stretches between us, broken only by Bijou scratching at the back door. Even she wants to escape this conversation.

Richard exhales hard through his nose. "Rebecca wasn't..." He rubs his jaw. "It wasn't like that at first."

I wait.

He stares at my bookshelf like it holds the answers. "She was... fine. Smart. Ambitious. And when my parents loved her, I thought..." A humorless laugh. "Maybe that was enough."

My stomach twists. "But?"

"But then she threw out my Tennessee hoodie." His eyes meet mine. "The one you stole freshman year."

I blink. "That ratty thing? You kept it for twelve years?"

"Six," he mutters defensively. "And it wasn't about the hoodie."

The air changes. I know what he's saying without saying it.

I pick at a loose thread on my shirt. "...So your marriage failed because you have a weird hoarding problem?"

He barks a laugh. "Yeah, Pen. That's it."

We're both quiet for a beat. Then—

"Slow," I say firmly. "Dinners. Movies. Actual dates where we wear pants for more than five minutes."

Richard's grin turns wicked. "What if the pants are optional after—"

"Consistency, Hogan. No love declarations before month three."

"Three? What is this, a corporate probation period?"

I throw a couch pillow at him. "Take it or leave it."

He catches it with one hand, the other pressing dramatically to his heart. "Fine. But I get to pick the first date location."

"Within reason!"

"Define 'reason.'"

"No skydiving. No flash mobs. And if you ever hire a mariachi band—"

Bijou chooses that moment to trot in with one of Richard's socks in her mouth.

We both stare.

"...That's my dog now," he decides.

I snatch the underwear away. "Ground rules!"

He's laughing as he pulls me in, forehead resting against mine. "Slow," he promises. "Consistent. So boring Mrs. Delaney will fall asleep during surveillance."

I poke his chest. "And you're getting tested."

"Jesus—"

"Safety first, Mr. Post-Divorce Rebound!"

Richard's laughter shakes through both of us. But when he kisses me—slow, sweet, nothing like last night's frenzy—it feels like a real beginning.

Somewhere outside, Mrs. Delaney's sprinklers mysteriously shift direction.

We ignore it.

The clinic parking lot is suspiciously full for a post-tornado Tuesday.

I kill the engine, gripping the steering wheel like it might anchor me to reality. Richard's truck sits two spaces over, still streaked with mud from yesterday's chaos.

This is fine. Totally professional. No one knows.

"Liar," Lena's voice chirps in my head.

The second I push through the clinic doors, Darlene's eyebrows shoot into her hairline. "Well, don't you look refreshed."

I nearly choke on my own tongue. "A combination of triage tent adrenaline and a good night’s sleep," I mutter, beelining for the break room.

Richard's at the coffee machine, looking disgustingly put-together in dark scrubs. Our eyes meet—heat, memory, his mouth on my—

"Morning," he says, voice carefully neutral.

"Morning." I grab a styrofoam cup like my life depends on it.

He leans in just enough that his sleeve brushes my arm. "You smell like your shampoo."

The coffee pot slips from my grip. He catches it effortlessly, pouring for me with that stupid smirk.

Across the room, Nurse Patel's eyes dart between us like she's watching Wimbledon.

Lena corners me in the supply closet, her grin feral. "Spill."

"There's nothing to—"

"Penelope Morgan." She brandishes a tongue depressor like a weapon. "You walked in here glowing, and Dr. McYummy keeps smiling at nothing."

I collapse onto a crate of gauze. "We slept together."

Lena's gasp could shatter glass. "Thank God—"

"Shhh!" I clamp a hand over her mouth. "And then we... agreed to try dating. Slowly."

She peels my fingers away. "Define slowly."

"No love declarations before month three. No moving in. No—"

"Oh, my God you made him sign a relationship contract?"

"It's called emotional responsibility, Lena!"

The door creaks open. Richard stands frozen, holding two lunch boxes. "...Am I interrupting?"

Lena snatches the extra container. "Nope! Just leaving!" She hip-checks me on her way out. "Play nice, kids."

The door clicks shut. Silence.

Richard eyes the supply shelves. "So. This is where you hide to gossip about me?"

"Allegedly."

He steps closer, crowding me between IV bags and orthopedic braces. "Any good dirt?"

"Just that you're terrible at following rules."

His laugh is warm against my neck. "Allegedly."

By 3:00 PM, the entire clinic has developed opinions:

Nurse Patel: "They're definitely doing that tense eye-contact thing."

Dr. Holloway: "If they don't stop 'accidentally' brushing hands, I'm writing them up."

Darlene: "Called it before he even came to town."

The only one who doesn't comment?

Richard. He just... exists near me. Passing charts with lingering fingers. "Accidentally" grabbing the same pen. Smiling like he's got a secret.

And when we leave—separately, for appearances’ sake—he texts before I'm even to my car:

Richard: Ground Rule #4: No kissing at work. (Unless it's really good news.)

I bite my lip.

Me: Define "really good."

His reply is instant:

Richard: Tornado sirens go off again and we have to take cover. Obviously.

I'm still laughing when Mrs. Delaney yells from her porch: "Sounds like someone's getting lucky tonight!"

God, I hate small towns.

One of the few really good restaurants in Mount Juliet is Vincenzo's, a dimly-lit Italian place where the red-checkered tablecloths haven't been changed since 1997 and the garlic bread is legally considered an addictive substance.

I'm adjusting my earring for the twelfth time when Richard's truck pulls up outside my house. He steps out holding a single daisy—not a bouquet, just one goofy flower with its stem wrapped in a paper towel.

"Ground Rule #2," he says solemnly. "No grand gestures. This is a medium gesture."

I snort. "It's literally a weed."

"No, it’s not. It's resilient," he corrects, tucking it behind my ear. His fingers linger near my temple. "Like someone I know."

The hostess grins like she's won the lottery when we walk in. "Y'all want the corner booth?" she stage-whispers. "Extra privacy?"

Richard opens his mouth.

"No," I cut in. "Normal table. Normal lighting. Normal human treatment."

Mandy sighs dramatically but seats us between a family of six and an elderly couple who immediately start whispering.

Richard leans across the table. "We could've had privacy."

I kick his shin under the table. "We're being watched by half the town already."

As if on cue, Old Man Jenkins raises his wine glass to us from across the room.

Two hours later, we've demolished a basket of garlic bread, eaten too much pasta, argued over the best Die Hard sequel (it's 3, you're wrong), and somehow landed on the topic of his divorce paperwork.

"...so Rebecca wanted the good silverware," Richard says, swirling his Chianti. "Which is insane, because we registered at Crate & Barrel."

I nearly spit out my water. "You had a registry?"

"My mother had a registry," he corrects, shuddering. "It included monogrammed napkin rings."

I'm laughing so hard my ribs hurt when the air suddenly changes.

A shadow looms over our table.

Oh, no.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," growls a familiar voice.

I don't even have to look up. "Jesse."

My older brother stands there, arms crossed, looking like he's about to flip the table. His flannel is rolled up to show off his "I Will Fight Your Ex" forearm muscles.

Richard straightens. "Hey, man."

Jesse's glare could melt steel. "Hogan. You forget how to stay gone?"

The entire restaurant goes quiet. Even the kitchen staff has poked their heads out to watch.

I stand so fast my chair screeches. "Outside. Now."

The summer air is thick with humidity and unresolved sibling rage.

"What the hell, Jess?" I hiss.

He jabs a finger toward the restaurant. "That asshole left you crying for months—"

"More than a decade ago!"

"And now he's back with his divorced dick and his fancy doctor hands—"

Behind us, the door creaks open. Richard steps out, holding my purse and a to-go box of tiramisu. "You forgot these," he says carefully.

Jesse rounds on him. "You hurt her again, I'll—"

"Enough." I step between them. "Richard and I are... figuring things out. Slowly."

Richard nods. "With rules."

"Rules?" Jesse looks between us like we've grown second heads.

I hold up fingers: "No love-bombing. No cohabitation for six months. And absolutely no—"

"—mariachi bands," Richard finishes.

Jesse stares. "What the fuck is wrong with you two?"

A beat. Then Richard cracks first, his laugh bursting out like a shot. Jesse's scowl wavers. I bite my lip so hard it hurts.

And just like that, the tension snaps.

Jesse shakes his head. "You're both idiots." But when he pulls me into a hug, he mutters, "Just... be careful, okay?"

Over his shoulder, Richard mouths: I'll behave.

I roll my eyes. Liar.

Richard walks me to my door, our fingers tangled together.

"So. Still taking it slow?"

I lean against the porch railing. "Mmm. Define slow."

His kiss tastes like cheap wine and tiramisu, and for the first time in a very long time, the future feels light.

Then Mrs. Delaney's porch light flicks on.

We spring apart like teenagers.

Richard's grin is wicked as he backs away. "Ground Rule #5: No making out where the neighbors can see."

"That wasn't a rule!"

"It is now!"

I'm still laughing when the door closes behind me.