She hadn’t cried during the whole airport fiasco, not while the police were asking her questions, not while the crowd of people craned their necks to see who she was and why she was causing such a stir. But those three little words had her eyes burning. I missed you.

She’d missed him, too. His smile, his quiet happiness, his laughter. The way he made her feel like she was . . . enough. She turned her head before he could see her tears, but she was too late.

Or he was simply too observant, because a soft handkerchief was pushed into her hand. “It’s clean.”

She choked on a laugh. “Thank you.”

He leaned back in his seat, looking like the cat that got the cream. On other men it would look conceited and smug. On Rafe, it looked happy.

He missed me.

She wasn’t sure what it meant. Wasn’t sure that she should even allow him to feel such things. But she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted to lean into him, to draw from his strength, to warm herself with the heat that he put out. He was like a furnace.

But she didn’t.

She wasn’t made to give effortless affection like he did. Maybe I never will. Maybe after Ephraim’s abuse, she’d never be normal. Fury at Ephraim Burton suddenly bubbled and boiled over. She wished she’d killed him.

He touched me. Cut me. Was going to take me back to Eden. And I was going to let him. She’d allowed him to lead her away, a lamb to slaughter, and she hadn’t even tried to fight.

That made her angrier, but the anger was at herself, and she deflated. I’m so tired.

And then something warm brushed her elbow and she looked down to see that Rafe had placed his hand on the bench seat, palm up, about three inches from her hip. Just there, no pressure.

Hers to take. If she wanted.

And she wanted. Loneliness swelled, taking her by surprise.

Be brave. Be a different Mercy. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than comfort. Just like Rory gives.

Which actually was humorous. How ridiculous. The comfort she got from her cat was nothing like what she could get from Rafe Sokolov. But at least I can do humor. Her lips curled upward and she readjusted the cat so that her hand was free. Carefully she placed her palm on his, her shoulders sagging when he twined their fingers together. It was real. And secure.

He never said a word. Never even indicated that they were touching. Except for the tiny squeezes that he gave her every few minutes or so, until Sasha pulled the SUV into the Sokolovs’ driveway.

“We’re home,” Sasha announced. “The kitties can chill in my old bedroom unless you need to hold one when Gideon comes.”

Ah. Sasha had figured out that Mercy’s cats helped reduce her anxiety, much like Daisy’s service dog, Brutus, a tiny papillon mix. That wasn’t a big surprise, though. Sasha was a social worker. Empathy was her stock-in-trade.