Page 5 of Je T'aime, Actually
But there was something about Chloé’s expression—open, not pushy, quietly confident—that made Monroe’s chest ache in a way she hadn’t let herself feel in months.
“A drink, huh?”
Chloé’s smile broadened, but she didn’t press. “Only if you want to. No pressure.”
Monroe paused, then nodded. “Alright. Why not?”
They stood together as the cabin filled with rustling bags and shifting passengers, and as they stepped out into the aisle, Monroe felt that small, surprising flicker again; the kind of feeling she thought she’d buried somewhere in the French countryside.
Chloé turned to her with that same easy smile. “I meant it, by the way...the drink.”
Monroe nodded, feeling suddenly shy. “Yeah, I know.”
There was a brief pause before Chloé pulled her phone from her coat pocket and held it out. “Number?”
Monroe took it, keyed in her digits with a slight hitch in her breath, and handed it back. Chloé glanced down, saving the contact.
“Monroe Carpenter,” she said aloud, the name rolling off her tongue in that lilting accent. “It does have a bit of movie star flair.”
Monroe raised an eyebrow. “Tragically wasted on spreadsheets.”
Chloé grinned. “Maybe not entirely.”
Then, before Monroe could prepare for it, Chloé leant in and kissed her cheeks—left, then right. The effortless, familiar French farewell. Nothing lingered, no suggestive pause, and yetMonroe’s skin lit up beneath the soft brush of contact. Her stomach gave an involuntary flutter.
God. Butterflies. She hadn’t had those in ages.
Chloé pulled back, eyes kind. “I’ll message you. We’ll figure something out.”
Monroe managed a small smile. “Okay.”
And then Chloé was walking away, blending into the crowd with her suitcase trailing behind, while Monroe stood still, phone in hand, cheeks slightly warm, her heart beating faster than it had all week.
four
It took Monroe all of an hour to get the train back to Woodington and then the connector to the tiny village she lived in.
Sandham was probably just as peaceful as the Loire Valley, she considered, as she stepped off the train, her suitcase rolling quietly behind her along the narrow platform. Fewer vineyards, more drizzle, but the stillness was familiar, and after the low hum of travel and airports, oddly comforting.
The wheels clicked softly over the uneven pavement as she walked towards the high street and the little Co-Op on the corner. She hesitated outside, adjusted the strap of her bag, then stepped through the doors as the shop bell gave its usual tired jingle.
Avocado, tomatoes, sourdough—she ran through the list in her mind—just enough to make something half decent when she got in.
She parked the suitcase out of the way at the end of an aisle and stood in front of the fruit, half-listening to an elderly couple arguing over apples.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out, thumb hovering before she checked the screen.
Unknown number:Hi. It’s Chloé. Hope you made it home safe. Still up for that drink sometime?
Monroe stared at the message for a moment.
Her heart still mending.
Still unsure.
But maybe, it could be a yes.
