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Mira looked from his face to the locket, then to the rain-streaked window behind him. In the glass, just for an instant, she saw a reflection that wasn’t hers. A woman in a green dress, standing in a doorway, one hand pressed to her heart. And she was smiling.
The man arrived three days later, in the form of a flat tire on a rain-slicked back road. Mira was driving home with a load of Depression glass when she saw the vintage Ford pickup pulled over, hazards blinking. A man stood in the downpour, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, muttering curses at a lug wrench.
Mira’s throat went tight. “You believe me?”
No hand mirrors with pearl handles. No gilded trifold vanities. No cracked bathroom medicine cabinets. If it reflected a face, she wouldn’t touch it.
His eyes—those bourbon-warm eyes—narrowed. “You’re a terrible liar.”
And the story— their story—was just beginning.
Now, at twenty-eight, Mira ran a small antique shop in the sleepy Vermont town of Havenwood. It wasn’t the life she’d planned—she had a degree in art history, a talent for restoration, and a fierce independence that scared off most men before the second date. But the shop, Yesterday’s News , was her anchor. And she curated it with a single, ironclad rule: No mirrors.
She pulled over. A Nora Roberts heroine always did.
