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.
“Probably.” He grinned, that crooked grin she’d fallen in love with somewhere between the second and third month of knowing him. “But you like that about me.” midnight kisses jeanine benedict
The rain had stopped exactly one minute before midnight, as if the city itself was holding its breath for Jeanine Benedict. Jeanine wasn’t the kind of woman who waited
The sound of a key turning in the lock made her pulse skip. She didn’t turn around. She listened to the familiar rhythm of footsteps—one heavier than the other because of the old knee injury from a high school soccer game she hadn’t even been at (a story she’d heard so many times she could recite it in her sleep). Practical
Jeanine smiled—a real smile, the kind she rarely showed anyone. “We’re really doing this.”
She reached up and grabbed the collar of his coat, pulling him down until his forehead touched hers. “You’re buying the croissants next time.”
She was thinking about croissants and rain and mountains and sisters.