Miras - Nora Roberts -

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

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

That afternoon, over coffee at the diner, she told him. Not everything. But enough. I see things in reflective surfaces. Memories. Feelings. Pasts that aren’t mine. She waited for him to laugh, to back away, to call her crazy. Miras - Nora Roberts

Their courtship was slow, tender, built on shared silences and the smell of sawdust. He restored her shop’s sagging floorboards. She found him a perfect set of antique brass drawer pulls for his farmhouse. He kissed her for the first time in the rain, under the eaves of her porch, and she felt not a single ghost between them.

“Need a hand?” she called, grabbing her umbrella. When she looked at him, she saw nothing

“Isabelle,” they said together.

She ran. She never told anyone. But she knew. His eyes—those bourbon-warm eyes—narrowed

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.