Midnight Kisses Jeanine Benedict | High Speed |

“I’m a bartender, Jeanine. I can pour drinks anywhere. They have bars in Seattle. They have rain, too—more than here, probably. And mountains. And your sister.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. “I’m not asking you to build a life for me. I’m asking if I can build one with you.”

“Do I get a kiss?”

The world exploded into light and sound around them, but all she felt was the warmth of his mouth, the strength of his arms wrapping around her waist, the steady beat of his heart against her chest. It tasted like champagne and rain and the faint salt of her own tears. It tasted like a beginning. midnight kisses jeanine benedict

She was thinking about home—and how, for the first time in her life, she didn’t have to find it alone. “I’m a bartender, Jeanine

“Seattle,” he said, as if testing the word. They have rain, too—more than here, probably

“Me.” Her voice cracked. “I’m scared. Of leaving you.”

She was thinking about croissants and rain and mountains and sisters.