Page 1 of Je T'aime, Actually
Prologue
The air was still, heat already gathering somewhere high above, waiting to suffocate those below. A cool freshness clung lower, just enough to make it bearable, as the clock ticked past seven and Monroe Carpenter sipped her second coffee of the day.
She glanced left, out the small window, across the field where wild deer roamed without purpose, grazing on dewy grass and ignoring the birds twittering in the trees overhead.
It was nice here, she thought, leaning back in her chair and pulling one foot up. She hugged her knee with one arm, the other knee balancing her cup precariously on top. Her blonde hair was tied messily at the nape of her neck, strands already curling from the rising humidity. A plain white T-shirt clung lightly to her back and bare legs descended from a loose pair of shorts—cool, comfortable, unbothered by vanity.
Maybe she didn’t have to go home? Would it really be so terrible to stay? What would she miss if she stayed?
Her friends—perhaps—but that was all. She could work from anywhere. All she needed was a laptop and Wi-Fi and she could vanish into the French countryside and pretend she'd never met Justine. Pretend her heart hadn’t been broken, rebuilt, and broken again by the second chances she kept handing over like gifts.
A beetle scurried across the window ledge, searching for a dark place to hide from the birds still chattering in the cherry tree.That’s me, she thought. Scurrying, hiding, avoiding anything that might threaten her peace.
Justine had arrived in her life at exactly the right moment—or so Monroe had thought. Monroe’s last relationship had ended the year before. She was over it. Life had steadied. Her finances were sound, and her little cottage felt like home. All that was missing was someone to share it.
They’d clicked instantly—that spark of genuine wit between two people who found each other attractive enough, at least from a handful of photos. They had spent a sufficient amount of time talking by text to agree on a coffee date.
She should have walked away when Justine arrived looking ten years older than her photos, but Monroe had scolded herself for being shallow. What did it matter? Justine was still attractive, funny, articulate—and God, she was sexy. A siren who knew exactly how to push all the right buttons.
How could shenotfall?
It hadn’t been a whirlwind. They’d taken their time. No rushing in, like with past lovers. Three months passed before Justine stayed over.
She’d come after work. They’d had dinner, a few drinks. Nothing heavy. Then Justine had leant in with that calm, quiet confidence, and Monroe found herself naked between her own sheets, skin to skin.
It had been magic.
Until it wasn’t.
And now here she was, alone in the French countryside, staring out the window, drinking coffee, with no idea what came next.
one
Monroe’s flight back should have been insignificant. Straight through security, a quick wander around duty free, and then she was waiting.
More coffee.
She absently flicked through the pages of her magazine, already running through dinner options in her mind. She’d need to stop by the shops, restock the fridge, and fill the silence.
“Excuse me?”
Monroe glanced up. A woman stood beside her, elegant in that effortless way some women always seemed to manage. Cream trousers, a silk blouse tucked just so, and dark, almost black hair twisted into a soft knot that made it look like she hadn’t tried at all.
“Is this seat taken?”
Her accent was soft, lilting—very French.
Monroe shook her head. “No, go ahead.”
The woman sat, crossing her ankles and placing a small leather handbag on her lap. She offered a polite smile, then reached into her bag for a book.
French, of course.
But she didn’t open it. Instead, after a moment, she turned to Monroe.
“I saw you earlier,” she said, “in the queue for coffee. You looked…how do you say…pensive?”
“Thoughtful?” Monroe offered. “Or maybe just tired.”
