Within a moment, the couple were gone.
Leaving me face-to-face with the love of my life and the guy who was apparently…his friend?
I cleared my throat. “Nice to see you again.” Because clearly my knowing his favorite scent was vanilla—and him not arguing—meant I remembered him.
He offered a soft smile. “And you.” He turned to his friend. “Damien, this is Jarrod. We went to college together. I was studying theater, and he was studying IT.” He turned back to me, the question clear in his eyes.
How did you go from studying IT in Vancouver to selling goat’s milk soap at a Christmas Market in Mission City and running a goat farm in Chilliwack?
Since I knew nothing about what had happened to him in the intervening years for him, I didn’t ask. Instead, I smiled. “My family convinced me to return to the farm. I do some computer stuff on the side, but my focus is the goat farm.” I gestured. “And making goat-milk products.”
Damien stepped forward to grasp the lemon-zing scented soap.
“Good for a wake-me-up in the morning.” I offered my salesperson smile.
He grinned back. “My daughter Paget could use this. She’s hard to wake.” He pivoted to Anderson. “You know, this would really be good for Adele.”
“Adele?” Because I was too damn curious for my own good.
Anderson met my gaze. “My daughter.”
He had a… My brain stuttered. Then shifted back into gear. Of course, he had a daughter. The world hadn’t stayed suspended for seventeen years.
Well, for one of us, anyway.
“She’s actually my niece. But I adopted her a few months after her mother, my sister, died. I consider her my own in every way that matters.”
“I see.” Because I did. That was exactly something Anderson might do. “Uh, how old is she? You said her name was Adele?”
He nodded. “She’s seventeen.” His gaze held mine.
“How old was she when her mother died?” An incredibly personal question, but an image was forming in my mind. A notion too painful to contemplate.
“Three months. I lost my sister almost two decades ago.” He swallowed. “That kind of pain never leaves, you know?” He turned to his friend. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean—”
Damien placed his hand on Anderson’s chest. “I miss my wife every day. That loss will, as you say, never leave. But I found a way to move on. A great husband, his friends—” He tapped Anderson’s nose. A rather intimate gesture for two men who werejust friends.
But then, who was I to judge? I had no close friends.
Anderson pivoted back to me. “Three lemon zings and two more vanilla. Where in Chilliwack?” He asked the question casually as he pulled out his wallet.
If I hadn’t needed the money, I would’ve given them to him for free.
“Is it okay if I give them as gifts?” Anderson met Damien’s gaze. “Oh, better make it four of each. I almost forgot Shaw’s housekeeper.”
Damien laughed. “Oh, she’ll be tickled you remembered her. Yes, it’s fine you’re giving these as gifts. I’m certain I can find something else. Too bad you’ve already got one for yourself—I could have bought it for you.”
“He loves homemade maple fudge.” I wrote out a receipt for Anderson. Then I collected the soaps and put them in the bag he held. The one Damien had given him earlier.
“Homemade maple fudge.” Damien licked his lips. “I doubt it’d survive until Christmas because that sounds decadent.”
“You can buy some for yourself and some for Anderson.” My friend Shea made the stuff, and the concoction was truly divine. I had to resist walking past her table because I could easily spend all my profits on her treats. Which was good neither formy bottom line, not my waistline. I didn’t want to worry about these things. At thirty-nine, though, I was starting to realize time wasn’t on my side.Right. I entered the amount in the card reader.
Anderson tapped his card. “Where in Chilliwack?”
I swallowed as I handed him the receipt.
He met my gaze.
