He set down the bottle and walked toward her, slow, deliberate, the way he always did when he was giving her space to retreat. That was the thing about Leo. He never crowded her. He never pushed. He just… waited.
“I hate that about you.”
“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.”
And Jeanine Benedict, who had never believed in midnight kisses, who had built her life on practicality and self-reliance, who had spent thirty-two years learning not to need anyone—Jeanine kissed him.
Leo took the final step. He was close enough now that Jeanine could smell the rain on his jacket, the coffee on his breath, the faint cedar of his soap. He didn’t touch her, but his presence was a warmth she could lean into.
“Okay,” he said, stopping an arm’s length away. “Talk.”
Jeanine blinked. “What?”
Midnight.