Miras - Nora Roberts -

He ended up at her shop the next morning, claiming he needed a housewarming gift for his sister. He’d just moved to Havenwood, bought an old farmhouse on the edge of town. He was a carpenter, a restorer of historic homes. He moved through her shop with a quiet reverence, touching the wood of a cradle, the worn leather of a lawyer’s satchel.

His eyes—those bourbon-warm eyes—narrowed. “You’re a terrible liar.” Miras - Nora Roberts

She pulled over. A Nora Roberts heroine always did. He ended up at her shop the next

“Both,” she said, surprising herself. “Neither. Depends on the day.” He moved through her shop with a quiet

Mira’s hands trembled as she reached for the locket. The moment her fingers touched the obsidian, a flood of images crashed over her: a woman in a green dress, weeping. A locket snapped shut as a door slammed. A name, whispered in the dark: Isabelle.

When she looked at him, she saw nothing . No shadows, no echoes, no sorrows clinging to his shoulders like a second coat. Just him.