Page 70 of Je T'aime, Actually
Chloé looked up, guilt washing across her face. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know how much you’ve given up—I do. I just… I guess we are both used to doing things our own way.”
Monroe took a slow breath, crossing the space between them. “This is all new. We’ve had weekends where none of that mattered. But this is life now. Real life.”
Chloé nodded, stepping in. “And in real life, people forget dishwashers and leave bathrooms messy.”
A small laugh broke between them.
“I don’t want us to snap at each other,” Monroe said. “That’s not who we are.”
“It isn’t,” Chloé agreed. “But it’s okay if we do sometimes. What matters is this part—this bit right here, where we figure it out.”
Monroe reached for her, sliding her hands around her waist. “I don’t want to fight. I want to learn how to live with you.”
“You are,” Chloé whispered, resting her forehead against Monroe’s. “We both are.”
“I love you,” Monroe said simply.
Chloé closed her eyes, smiling softly. “Je t’aime.”
They stood together for a while in the middle of the kitchen—barefoot, still a little raw, but more connected than before.
Love, it turned out, wasn’t all candlelight and kisses. Sometimes, it was cleaning up the mess afterwards. Together.
Monroe grinned, already picturing them somewhere else, with candles and wine, a little laughter, and no stress. “Let’s pretend we haven’t argued over towels.”
Chloé chuckled as she pulled on her coat. “You started that one.”
“I stand by my opinion,” Monroe called after her. “Towels belong on hooks, not the floor!”
Chloé popped her head back around the door, smirking. “At least we agree on wine.”
“That’s the foundation of any solid relationship.”
“I’ll book something,” Chloé said. “Something nice. Wear that dress I like.”
Monroe raised an eyebrow. “Which one is that?”
Chloé turned to her, face suddenly serious. “The one that hugs your backside, barely covers your legs, and has me drooling the second I see you in it.”
Monroe smirked back. “Oh,thatone.”
She closed the space between them, palms pressed flat against Chloé’s chest as she leant in for a kiss. “Keep thinking like that,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “I really like it when you drool over me.”
Chloé’s hands found Monroe’s waist, holding her close for just a moment longer. “Can’t help it. You walk into a room in that dress and I forget how to breathe.”
Monroe grinned, brushing her lips just once more over Chloé’s. “Then I guess I’d better wear it.”
“You really, really should.” Chloé sighed dramatically, letting her hands linger as she stepped back. “I’ll see you tonight.”
fifty-eight
In the end, Chloé didn’t make it home early as planned. Monroe sat on the sofa, dressed to the nines—thatdress, a full face of makeup, her favourite heels—glass of wine in hand, eyes flicking between the clock and her phone.
It was nearly eight. Not too late for dinner—people ate later in France—but Chloé still had to get home, get changed, and freshen up before they could head back into the city. Time was slipping.
Her text had been apologetic. Monroe didn’t doubt she meant it. But she couldn’t deny the quiet sting of disappointment. She’d been ready—not just for dinner, but for the moment. The flirtation. The fun. Tonight had felt like something special. And now, it just felt like something missed.
Her phone rang. She snatched it up, expecting Chloé, but it wasn’t. Still, her face lit up as she answered the video call and Kitty’s small face filled the screen.
