Chapter Two
Daphne
Iwoke with the dawn, my body tense despite the softness of my bed. The market day had arrived.
Five years of routine had trained me well. I moved through my morning preparations with practiced efficiency—washing my face in cold water, braiding my hair tightly against my scalp, selecting clothes that were functional rather than fashionable. The wooden crates waited by the door, packed and ready from yesterday's preparations. All I needed to do was load them.
Outside, a thin mist hung over the garden, making the familiar landscape seem slightly altered. I paused on the porch, listening. The birds were already calling to each other, but beneath their songs, I strained to hear any hint of activity from down the road. The Henderson place. Garrett's place now, apparently.
Nothing. Just the usual morning stillness.
I shook off my disappointment—no, not disappointment, relief—and headed toward my pickup. The ancient truck groaned as I loaded the crates into the bed, securing them withbungee cords that had seen better days. The last thing I needed was my carefully arranged produce bouncing onto the dirt road.
"Focus," I muttered to myself, tightening the final cord with more force than necessary. "Just another market day."
But as I slid behind the wheel and turned the key, I couldn't help glancing down the road one last time. Still nothing. No dust clouds from an approaching vehicle, no sounds of construction. Maybe he'd just been passing through after all, despite his talk of being a new neighbor.
The thought should have pleased me. Instead, it left a strange hollow feeling in my chest.
I drove toward Haven's Rest with the windows down, letting the cool morning air rush through the cab. The town was just waking up as I arrived—shopkeepers unlocking doors, early risers clutching coffee cups, the occasional dog walker navigating the quiet streets. The market square bustled with activity as I pulled in, vendors already setting up their stalls under the morning light. I parked in my usual spot at the far corner, where fewer people would pass by. That was how I preferred it—enough customers to make the trip worthwhile, but not so many that I'd feel overwhelmed.
I unloaded my crates methodically, arranging my herbs and produce on the weathered wooden table I'd claimed as my own these past five years. The lavender bundles went toward the front—they always caught people's eyes with their vivid purple. Behind them, the vegetables and fruits, organized by color. It was a system that made sense to me, though I'd never bothered to explain it to anyone.
"Morning, Daphne."
I looked up to see Eleanor, she had a stall that sold needlework and other handcrafted items.Her gray hair pulled back in its usual practical bun. She was one of the few vendors I'd allowed myself to become familiar with—mostly becauseshe respected my boundaries and never pushed for more conversation than I was willing to give.
"Morning," I replied, placing the last bundle of rosemary in position. "Good day for it."
Eleanor nodded, glancing at the clear sky. "Should be. You've got a nice selection this week."
I managed a small smile, the closest thing to warmth I typically showed at these events. "Thanks. Garden's doing well."
She moved on after that brief exchange, and I felt the familiar rhythm of market day settling over me. This was manageable. Predictable. I knew what to expect here—who would buy my herbs, who would haggle over prices, who would simply browse and move on. I'd mastered the art of polite disengagement, the perfect balance of being present enough to make sales without inviting further connection.
The first few hours passed exactly as expected. I sold two bundles of lavender to Mrs. Peterson, who always used it for sachets. The Thompsons bought their usual selection of cooking herbs. A few tourists—obvious from their eager expressions and casual questions about the area—picked up some of my jams.
I was just reorganizing my display when I felt it—that peculiar sensation of being watched. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I straightened, scanning the crowd.
There, moving through the market with casual confidence, was Garrett. He wore a different flannel today—blue instead of yesterday's red—but the same easy smile. He paused at various stalls, chatting with vendors like he'd known them for years instead of minutes. I watched as Eleanor laughed at something he said, her usual reserve melting away under his attention.
I busied myself with adjusting a row of jars, hoping he wouldn't notice me. But of course, that was foolish. He'd made it clear yesterday that he intended to find me here.
Sure enough, I sensed his approach before I saw him. Something about his presence seemed to displace the air around him, creating a subtle pressure that I couldn't ignore. My shoulders tensed as footsteps approached my stall. I kept my eyes fixed on the jars, pretending to be absorbed in my task.
"Well, look at this," Garrett's voice carried the same easy warmth from yesterday. "You weren't kidding about your setup."
I glanced up, trying to keep my expression neutral. "I don't kid about my work."
His eyes moved over my display, taking in the neatly arranged herbs and preserves. The interest in his gaze seemed genuine, not just polite curiosity. "These all from your land?"
I nodded. "Everything here grows on my property."
"Impressive." He picked up a jar of blackberry jam, turning it in the sunlight. The deep purple contents caught the light, almost glowing. "Homemade?"
"No, I ordered it from a factory," I said, the sarcasm slipping out before I could stop it.
Instead of being offended, Garrett laughed, the sound rich and unexpectedly pleasant. "Fair enough. Stupid question."
