Midnight Kisses — Jeanine Benedict __hot__

“Seattle,” he said, as if testing the word.

Jeanine looked down at her hands. They were shaking. She pressed them flat against the railing. “I got a job offer. In Seattle.” midnight kisses jeanine benedict

“We’re really doing this?”

“Jeanine,” he said. “I’ve known you for two years. In that time, you have fixed my sink, taught my niece how to fold origami cranes, and correctly diagnosed a rare thyroid condition in a woman I introduced you to at a party. You are the most stubborn, brilliant, infuriating person I have ever met.” He paused. “And I am desperately in love with you.” “Seattle,” he said, as if testing the word

“It’s a good job,” she continued, the words rushing out now like water through a broken dam. “Better pay. Real research, not just paperwork. And I’d be closer to my sister, and the mountains, and—” She stopped. Breathed. “I’ve been here eight years, Leo. Eight years in that same cramped apartment, eating beignets and pretending I like humidity. I can’t—I can’t stay just because I’m scared to leave.” She pressed them flat against the railing

Jeanine wasn’t the kind of woman who waited for midnight kisses. She was the kind who baked bread at 2 a.m. when she couldn’t sleep, who read medical journals for fun, who had once sewn her own wedding dress and then worn it to a divorce court six months later. Practical. Self-contained. The sort of person who reminded herself that New Year’s Eve was just another Thursday with confetti.