She felt her cheeks heat in pleasure at the compliment. “Did I wake you?”

“No. I should be sacked out solid, but I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either,” she admitted. “Farrah falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow. I envy her that skill.”

“My brain was racing.”

“Mine too.” She wanted to say more but had no idea what she should say. Instead, she gestured lamely to the stairs. “I should let you try to sleep.”

“Or you could come in for a cup of tea,” he said, and her heart began to race again, but not in fear.

It was anticipation and it was more than a little heady. “If you really don’t mind.”

Gripping his cane, he stepped backward into his apartment, beckoning her in. “I don’t mind at all.”

She looked around as he closed the door behind them, partly out of curiosity and partly to avoid staring at the chest he was making no move to cover up. “You didn’t change anything from when Daisy lived here.” The walls were still covered in vibrant, colorful murals, the open closet door revealed a jumble of sports equipment, and the corners were still stacked high with fabric of every imaginable color. It was like a hobby shop had exploded. Mercy had loved it at first sight.

“It’s only temporary,” he said with a shrug. “Daisy’ll want her place back eventually. Once my PT is done and I can take the stairs again. If she’s not married to Gideon and raising their five children by then.”

The PT was not going well, then. Mercy was glad she hadn’t asked. Not sure how to respond, she pointed to the whiteboard against the living room wall. “That’s new.”

It was a free-standing model, the kind that flipped to reveal another board on the other side. The whiteboard was filled with his PT schedule. He went three times a week and he was clearly discouraged by his lack of progress, real or perceived.

She could identify with that. Her own mental health therapy had been a similar struggle. Two steps forward, one step back. It still was.

“Ah, my board,” Rafe said, walking into the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane. “It helps me keep my schedule straight.”

This surprised her, because the schedule hadn’t looked complicated. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, same time, same place.

“What kind of tea?” he asked. “I have a whole drawerful. Well, Daisy does. Come take a look.”

Mercy picked a packet of chamomile from the drawer. “It helps me wind down.”

He nodded once. “Have a seat on the sofa. I’ll bring it to you.”

She cast a doubtful gaze from the two cups on the counter to the cane in his hand, but made no protest. He was a grown man. He knew what he was capable of doing.

She’d settled on the sofa when she spied the edge of a canvas leaning against the far wall, behind several other paintings. It was a painting she’d recognized when she’d been here six weeks before, a painting that had shattered her heart at first sight. She was on her feet and pulling the painting free before realizing that she’d even planned to move. Placing it in front of the others, she stood and stared at the crudely painted field of daisies, a young girl sitting in their midst. A smiling young girl with black hair and green eyes.