One More Chance: A Second Chance Romance (Topica Bay #3)

Chapter 1

Penelope

The man on the other side of the table greets me with a smug grin as I take my seat. No handshake, no adjusting his zero-shame man-spread, just pure arrogance when he drawls, “Well, well, Penelope, you actually live up to those profile pics of yours.”

Oh boy.

I blink at him, unsure if that’s a compliment or not.

“Thank you, um…?” Shit, I’ve completely forgotten his name.

He sips his coffee, not getting the cue to fill in the blank.

After the week I’ve had, I planned to cancel on the guy, but he’s been so eager to meet up that the guilt of ghosting him prevented me from sending a, So sorry, I can’tmake it, message.

Considering I have a job interview for a personal assistant gig after this, I probably should’ve.

My newest endeavor as a yoga instructor was a total flop. To my utter disbelief, at the ripe age of thirty, I’m not as bendy as I once was. But meeting at the coffee shop gave me an excuse to grab the kiddos at the group home a box of their favorite blueberry-lemon cookies, and I’d do damn near anything for their joyful squeals.

“Do the women you usually date not look like their pictures?” I ask, trying to get comfortable in my constricting, cream-colored pantsuit.

I follow his wandering gaze to the curvy blonde two tables down. “Yeah. Can’t ever trust those filters, you feel me?”

I unplugged from social media years ago, so the whole dating app thing is new to me. And unfortunately, between sorting through unsolicited dick pics and finding someone who can hold a decent conversation, it’s been more trouble than it’s worth.

Taylor—or is it Timothy? Tormund?—takes another bubbling slurp of his drink.

“I have no clue how to use filters, but I know I’m not equipped with one.” I point at my mouth for emphasis, and then snort a laugh loud enough to turn a few heads. “Oops. Sorry!”

When I wave at the onlookers, my date ducks a smidge lower in his seat.

“So… you’ve lived in Keerah for some time?” His eyes flick back to the woman before landing on my fingers, quietly tapping the table.

His lip curls when he spots my chewed nails, and I force a smile before quickly tucking my hands between my thighs.

“It’s kind of a long story, but my parents have had land in the southern part of Topica Bay for pretty much ever. My dad has this whole ranch, and he raises horses and stuff. I’ve lived all over the island in the past, but decided to settle in Keerah about a year ago, I think.”

I intentionally leave out the fact that my father is one of the wealthiest men on the island and the founder of the application company, Triggerz.

He hums at my rambling the same way someone might say, “Wow” in the middle of a story they’ve lost interest in.

I watch him and the woman continue to ogle each other, and while she’s definitely gorgeous, I can’t help wondering what it is about her that I don’t have.

I’m shorter than average with an hourglass frame, and I may have crammed my feet into a pair of heels—and my ass into a business appropriate outfit—but I’m more of a barefoot, no-makeup kind of gal. Though, I do put maximum effort into taming my naturally wavy hair.

While he’s distracted, I scrounge in my bag for some cinnamon chews and pop a few into my mouth, savoring the sweet and spicy tang that glides over my taste buds and numbs my tongue.

Lately, all my dates have been monumental disappointments, and I don’t get it. What is it about me that’s so damn undesirable?

Mom would say it’s my ability to talk someone into a coma, but I think it’s my withering youth or a bad batch of pheromones.

Casually bringing my nose to my pit, I take a whiff.

Could be worse.

I check my phone for the time and do some quick math. My interview at Summit Estates is in downtown Keerah, but if I leave now, I could stop by to see the kids and still make it twenty minutes early.

The stool screeches when I push away from the table, loud enough to break the heavy tension between my date and the woman who’s suddenly finding anything and everything more interesting than us.

“Wait. Where are you going?” he asks, sitting forward as if to stop me, but only minimally.

I hold up a hand, wrinkling my nose. “I appreciate the effort here, Trevor, but we both know this is going nowhere.”

“It’s Tatum.”

“Ah, see?” I question myself aloud. “I knew it started with a T.”

His jaw drops when I step over to the blonde’s table and gesture for her hand.

“What are you doing?” Her eyes widen with shock, but when I wiggle my fingers at her, she reluctantly places her hand in mine.

I guide the woman to our table and gently nudge her into the seat I was occupying.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Um, Whitney.”

“Ugh, love that name.” Confusion has the pair frowning, but I smile, grabbing the box of cookies and balancing it on my hip. “See? Now you guys can skip the uncomfortable part of introducing yourselves and get right to the dating. Or the boning. Whichever comes first.”

I pull my messenger bag off the back of the chair and sling it over my shoulder.

“You don’t think this is uncomfortable?” Whitney asks, but her eyes keep flicking to Tristen… Terry? Fuck. It doesn’t matter.

Giving the table a light tap, I say, “Send me an invite to the wedding, kay?”

On my way to the door, I place my headphones in my ears, but the music doesn’t play quick enough to drown out her muttering, “She was fucking weird.”

Sunshine heats my face and chest when I step onto the boardwalk, drowning the rest of their conversation with my favorite pop mix playlist.

Jokes on them if they think I’m fazed. I’ve been labeled ‘weird’ and ‘too much’ my entire life.

“Happy Wednesday,” I singsong to Mr. Chavez when I approach his fried fish cart. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

The delicious aroma of fried food mixed with the salt from the surrounding bay makes my mouth water, and I remove an earbud before reaching inside the cookie box.

He takes the treat I offer him, twitching his mustache before devouring a hefty bite. “You’re a saint, Penelope.”

I reach for the golden-battered cod on a stick he hands me with a smirk. “I know you love your sweets.”

“Come back on Friday,” he says when I turn to cross the street. “I’ll have rainbow parrot fish.”

“You got it!”

I wave goodbye before skipping a couple of songs until I find one I can shake my ass to while I walk.

Anchorage Harbor is a quiet town surrounded by shimmering blue waters and gorgeous bluffs. The wooden walkways along the coast bustle with activity, where locals come to trade their wares–be it homemade goods or freshly grown foods. But the pace is much slower around here than farther inland in the busy city of Keerah.

Much like Topica Bay’s most populated city, Tauntuma, Keerah teems with large corporate buildings and people racing to and from work. Only Keerah’s smaller, older, and has a lot more character.

I make it about half a block in my four-inch heels before I stop to ditch the torture devices. Warm, sun-bleached concrete meets the soles of my feet as I pass the marina, where fishing vessels and sailboats sway in the tide. They glide through deep, navy waters beyond a string of quaint, multi-colored buildings and vibrant waterfront shops.

Between Keerah and the harbor, I should be living the dream. The weather is just right year-round, the locals are inclusive of all cultures, and there’s a plethora of adventures to be had.

The only problem? My perfectly put-together sister is flying in from London tomorrow for a visit. It’s the first time she’s been back to the island since I moved to the city, which leaves me scrambling to find another job before she and my parents discover the wheels on my struggle bus are going flat one lie at a time.

Beep. Beep.

They have no idea I quit my job, or the one before that.

Oh, and the one before that, too.

And sure, despite telling her it’s the one place I found that didn’t charge a fortune for rent, she’ll turn her nose up at my dingy apartment. But if I get this job, at least I can keep her entertained and keep the lights on.

Problem solved. Lies secured. What could possibly go wrong?

Dancing my way around stuck gum and puddles, I pass several clusters of row houses before climbing the steps to the group home two at a time.

I bump the old door open with my hip. There’s an antique smell to the building that’s as familiar as it is calming. It somehow pairs well with every other scent in the house, too. Like my friend Dorthea’s perfume, or Ricardo’s cooking.

Today, however, it’s blended with the starchy scent of construction paper and glue sticks, and I breathe in deeply, committing it to memory.

“Happy birthday!” my favorite tiny humans shout before attacking me in the hallway. The little ones surround me with smiles, waving their handmade cards as we enter the front room where we welcome potential adoptive parents.

“What!” I smack my forehead with the heel of my hand, teasing them. “I totally forgot.”

Giggles abound as I tuck the glitter- and paint-covered cards into the front pocket of my bag, gasping at the various party decorations strung about. There’s a balloon tied to the back of the farthest chair that reads, Happy 52nd Birthday!

Tarra crosses her arms beside me, appearing far older than her seventeen years with a face accented by the makeup I bought her.

“Sorry,” she says, peering up at the light flickering above the space. “They were out of thirtieth balloons.”

“It’s perfect. I love it so much, you guys.”

She squirms when I wrap my arm around her neck and squeeze, but her laughter and the rest of their beaming faces sucker-punch me in the gut like my insides are being squeezed by a rainbow and bathed in a ray of sunlight.

“Pen?” My friend Dorthea calls from the wide kitchen window overlooking the sitting room, with sweat and streaks of pink marking her brow. “I thought you weren’t coming by until after your interview?”

“Just stopping in for a sec. I couldn’t resist bringing a snack for my gremlins.” They grin as I follow them into the open living room where an old TV is playing a kid’s show.

“Hang on, hang on,” I warn, dodging their grabby hands while setting the box on the worn kitchen table on the other side of the room.

Despite my best reupholstering efforts, the laminate is peeling up at the corners and the rusty metal legs squeak whenever I touch it. But much like the patched-up couches and the TV, it’s been handed down or found on the streets.

“Nellie!” Mable, a young Topican girl with long wavy hair, hugs me from behind.

“There you are.” I squeeze her arms before turning to see her tan face beaming up at me.

“You look so pretty. I bet that boy liked you a lot.”

She and Tarra had a hand in picking out my outfit today, so I hate to disappoint her when I say, “Thanks, bug. But I don’t think it’s gonna work out.”

“Aw. How come?”

I spare her the gritty details of my lackluster dating life. “I guess he ended up liking someone else.”

Her brow furrows. “That’s not very Prince Charming of him.”

Given the duds I’ve been dating lately, I’m beginning to believe the whole ‘white knight’ ship has sailed.

I give the room a quick once over, making sure none of the other kiddos see me slip the packaged sugar cookie I bought especially for her from my blazer pocket. When I place it in her hand, her big green eyes widen before she dashes off to inhale the morsel.

“You spoil her,” Ricardo, the group home’s self-proclaimed chef, and Dorthea’s husband, says from behind me.

I nudge him with the tip of my elbow. “Do not.”

He quirks a brow, knowing as well as I do that I favor the young girl. “Bad date, huh?”

“You’re the nosiest man I’ve ever met, did you know that?”

Not bothering to deny it, he shrugs. But his tone is serious when he says, “That pendejo doesn’t know what a catch you are.”

“Too true,” I agree with false confidence.

Those doubts I had at the coffee shop are rooted deep, spreading faster than I can stop them; but desirable or not, if it weren’t for my second family here, my days would be a hell of a lot lonelier.

Glancing at the peeling paint, scattered holes in the walls, and stained floors, I turn to my friend. “We’re going to revamp this place. When I get this job, I’ll have plenty of extra money to save for renovations.”

It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve offered, Ricardo refuses to let me consider asking my father for help. And while borrowing money from Dad to make my life more comfortable isn’t an option, if it came to it, I’d expose all my lies for them.

“Chiquita, we love you. But how many times do I have to tell you we don’t need your money?”

I lower my voice. “I just worry about the city butting in again, that’s all.”

A warm hand cups my shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Dorthea interrupts, presenting me with a small pink- and white-iced cake with my name piped in squiggly letters across the center.

She places a fork in my hand expectantly. “Just in time for you to have one bite before you go.”

My smile wobbles, heart full to the brim with love for these amazing humans as I spear a piece of birthday cake. It smells just as sweet as it looks and tastes even better.

“Thanks for all of this, both of you.”

“Only the best for our girl.” Ricardo winks. “Now, go give them hell.”

With my heels back on my feet, I say my goodbyes and head straight for the bus stop on the corner of Seaside Avenue. It’s a twenty-minute ride from the harbor to Keerah, which gives me plenty of time to rehearse my tried-and-true interview skills.

The woman from the agency claims Summit Estates is a small residential company, heavily invested in the local community. Which is great for me, because while the pay is attractive, I want to get in front of someone higher up who could invest in the group home and keep it from potentially foreclosing like the other homes and businesses around it.

The bus takes ten minutes longer than usual, and by the time I finally exit, I’m booking it across the walkway for the elegant glass doors of the office building. My heels are rubbing blisters that I’m going to feel for weeks, but with any luck, this job will be worth the pain.

I’m met with turned-up noses when I finally make it inside of the elevator. I wedge myself between a group of men and women with unmistakable pity in their stares as they size up my bargain brand outfit and worn clearance pumps.

“Hot out there, am I right?” I glance around, but when they shift away from me in silence, I grumble, “Tough crowd…”

We climb one floor at a time, and I wiggle my way backward until my spine flattens against the wall.

“Thirty is thriving. Thirty is established.” I rub my forehead where the start of a headache forms. “Thirty, single, and jobless does not define me.”

“Hey, lady,” the man beside me whispers, “I know a good therapist in the building next door if you need one.”

I thank him awkwardly before shutting my eyes and relaxing my head back.

Okay, maybe I’m thirty and in denial.

By the time I stumble into the Summit Estates office, I’m sweating enough to hear my hair frizzing and doing my best to ignore my throbbing feet.

“Miss Vance?” a woman wearing thick-framed glasses barks.

“The one and only.” I trip over my feet as she approaches me, and recover by sweeping an arm down the front of my body.

I wiggle my hands for extra pizazz, but instead of smiling, she says, “You’re late.”

“I’m so sorry. The bus was delayed, and I—” I’m silenced by the grim line forming across her wrinkled mouth.

“Mr. Murphy will see you now.”

“Yes. Great. That’s… Okay, then.”

I scurry after her waddling form to his office. The corridor is deceiving in the way it makes the space appear small, but past the first three offices resides an open room full of cubicles.

It’s all so foreign to me—the office atmosphere, the attire, and the acrid scent of burned coffee mixed with printer ink.

I haven’t held a steady job, in well… ever. My sister claims it’s because I’m flighty, but what does she know? She’s got it easy working for Dad at his international branch in London. She never had to bother with this kind of thing.

The truth is, I’ve never had that one thing that called to me. Everyone in my family has a place and purpose, but not me. I’m the black sheep and the complete opposite of business savvy.

The older woman knocks once and a deep, masculine voice drawls, “Come in.”

When the door swings open, I gape at the man sitting among stacks of papers on top of an artfully crafted wooden desk, and I hardly catch my jaw before it unhinges in shock.

“Wow,” I manage, shifting my weight when his piercing eyes flick up to mine. “I mean, you’re not my type, but you sure are pretty.”

There’s a smirk flirting with a pair of lips that are too sensual to be real when I take a seat in the chair across from him.

“Do you mind?” I point at my feet, not waiting for permission before I pop the wretched things off. “Ahh. That’s better.”

He blinks at me, all sun-kissed with blond hair that’s longer than typical for most men, and sweeps just beneath his ears. His shoulders are going to bust the seams of that button-down he’s wearing at any minute, but that doesn’t stop him from leaning forward for a better look at me.

“Well, I suppose that’s one way to start an interview.” Stretching his hand out to me, he offers a firm shake before introducing himself, “Declan Murphy.”

“Penelope Vance.”

“Vance.” One dark brow raises. “Any relation—”

“Nope.” My smile’s a touch too enthusiastic, yet alarmingly fragile. “None whatsoever. Get that from time to time, though.”

I won’t be needing my dad to land me any jobs, pay my bills, or rescue me, thank you very much.

He studies me for a moment before releasing my hand. “Still, your name is familiar…”

Clearing my throat, I point at my application. “I think you’ll find some pretty good stuff there. Lots of jobs that speak to my, uh… skills and such.”

I uncross my legs and strive for poise, but wince when I kick the front of his desk, squeaking a quiet, “Ow.”

He turns his attention to my resume, decorated with a purple border and flower bullet points.

“Yes, I admit, of all our applicants, your extensive humanitarian work was the most attractive. As Mr. Anderson’s assistant, you’ll be required to sit in on, and possibly participate in, meetings with some of our partners, as well as clients.”

I shake my head, that name knocking a rusty old screw loose. “I’m sorry, who will I be assisting?”

The mere mention of that name makes my blood boil, and unbidden, panic slowly settles in. Surely, he doesn’t mean that Mr. Anderson.

“Logan Anderson. The CEO of Summit Estates.”

Shit. Shitty, shit, shit, actually.

Wide-eyed, I sit on the edge of my seat, ready to bolt the second my brain locates my legs. “No.”

Declan tips his head. “Excuse me?”

Logan can’t be here. He’s supposed to be in the States, happy and in love with a chick named Rachel–whom I’ve never fantasized about mailing a bushel of glitter dicks to just because she married the boy who broke my heart.

“Are you okay, Miss Vance?”

Blood whirs in my ears as I clutch the arms of the chair.

Declan’s office door snicks open, and without looking, I know who’s entered the room. I can sense his stare on the back of my neck like prey hiding from its predator. It tickles and teases down my spine, penetrating my senses like a near-tangible caress.

“Apologies for my tardiness, I—”

“Ah, how nice of you to join us,” Declan mutters and my pulse flatlines. “I was just going over the requirements of the position.”

I stand in a rush, feeling the world cant sideways. Whatever else Declan says falls on deaf ears as I steady myself, gripping the edge of his desk.

Oh, god. I’m gonna puke.

“Pen?” Logan says cautiously before entering my periphery.

I don’t know how it’s possible. I haven’t heard from or spoken to him since he stole my heart all those years ago and then disappeared altogether.

I suck in a shaky breath as I gradually bring my gaze to his. Gone is the boyish charm that had brightened his face; replaced by a sharpened jawline and eyes somehow a darker, more dangerous shade of blue than the soft, welcoming one I remember.

No, this blue will drown me the minute I go too deep, and it pairs all too nicely with a scowl that’s hardened with time and been cut with suspicion.

“Are you all right?” he asks, and I want to beg him to stop talking. To just shut his beautiful face for a minute so I can hate him appropriately.

But he’s filled out significantly, all that muscle stretching and flexing beneath his dress shirt and slacks making me dizzy. All at once memories of the two of us—who we used to be—assault me.

I’m fighting the urge to throw my arms around his neck for how relieved I am to see him as fiercely as the urge to slap him for what he’s done.

Twelve. Years. That’s how long I’ve spent cursing and missing him, and wondering if he was still alive out there, cursing and missing me, too.

But the what if’s and the could’ve been’s no longer matter.

I’ve worked too damn hard to erase this man from my memory to let him throw me off now.