Page 43 of Once Upon A Second Chance
I yawn luxuriously, stretching under the quilt before pulling on his shirt (which smells so much like him) along with yesterday's leggings. The house is quiet as I make my way down the spiral staircase and into—
The kitchen: Richard stands at the stove looking far too competent for this hour of day and our current altitude level.
He glances up when he hears me coming, then smiles—a sleepy-eyed, satisfied grin that makes my knees go weak all over again.
“Morning,” he says handing me a steaming mug.
“Hey.” I take it gratefully then tiptoe up to kiss him on the corner of his mouth. It turns into something more involved than intended but who can blame us?
When we finally come up for air I lean against him contentedly watching as he flips pancakes with unnecessary flair.
“Did you ever think,” I say between sips of life-giving caffeine, “we’d end up here?”
He arches an eyebrow. “In a cabin? In Tennessee?”
“Together.” The word hangs there suspended like something fragile waiting to be caught or dropped depending how brave I am today.
Richard turns off the burner then faces me fully, his expression serious but soft around edges that used to be hard: walls built out of fear or pride or both.
“I hoped,” he says simply.
The truth between us glows warm and steady—almost too bright to look at directly after years spent looking past it stubbornly, sure we’d moved on with our lives when really we’d just detoured away.
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 justbeing. 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.
