- Nora Roberts — Miras
And the story— their story—was just beginning.
“Both,” she said, surprising herself. “Neither. Depends on the day.” Miras - Nora Roberts
He turned. And Mira’s heart did a strange, stuttering thing. He was tall, built like a man who worked with his hands, with a sharp jaw and eyes the color of good bourbon—warm amber flecked with gold. But it wasn’t his looks that stole her breath. It was the absence. And the story— their story—was just beginning
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. ” she said
And the story— their story—was just beginning.
“Both,” she said, surprising herself. “Neither. Depends on the day.”
He turned. And Mira’s heart did a strange, stuttering thing. He was tall, built like a man who worked with his hands, with a sharp jaw and eyes the color of good bourbon—warm amber flecked with gold. But it wasn’t his looks that stole her breath. It was the absence.
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.