Page 85 of Je T'aime, Actually
She beamed, taking the wrapped chicken with a little more confidence. “Merci,” she said with more energy as she paid.
As she stepped back out into the early evening light, Monroe smiled to herself. Okay, so she wasn’t fluent, but she was trying. And sometimes, trying was enough to make the world smile back. But lessons with Patrice couldn’t come quickly enough.
The short walk gave her time to reflect. The streets were still lively, the golden haze of sunset brushing everything in warmth. She liked it here, more than she’d let herself admit at first. Maybe it wasn’t about fitting in perfectly. Maybe it was just about showing up and making the effort.
By the time she reached the office, the building had quietened. She tapped her code at the side entrance and made her way back up. Chloé was at the door already, coat over one arm and her laptop bag slung over her shoulder.
“Did you make friends with the butcher?” Chloé asked, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“I may have accidentally claimed to be a chicken,” Monroe replied, holding up the paper-wrapped parcel. “But hey, we got there.”
Chloé laughed and leant in to kiss her cheek. “Come on,mon poulet, let’s go home.”
seventy-one
There was a rhythm to life now. The uncertainty of those first few weeks had faded, replaced by a steady ease. Monroe had thrown herself into life in France, and Chloé, true to her word, had done everything she could to help smooth the way.
Patrice had been a godsend.
Monroe wasn’t fluent by any means, but the basics were coming along. She could order coffee, ask for directions, and—most importantly—hold her own at the butcher’s, even if the jokes still followed her.
She'd settled into the office more quickly than she’d expected. Elise often stopped by to chat in the mornings, usually with a pastry in hand and a sarcastic comment at the ready. Monroe had even picked a day of the week—Wednesdays—for her turn to bring in treats; something that earned her approving nods from the others.
At lunch, she occasionally joined a few of the staff in the park nearby if it was dry and warm enough, or at a little bistro when the weather began to turn colder. They spoke a mix of Englishand French, and Monroe was grateful for the patience they showed her. Even on days when she worked through her break, someone always checked in to see if she needed anything.
And Chloé… She was different now, too.
Not in a dramatic way, but in a steady, intentional way that made Monroe feel seen. She came home earlier. She left her phone in the hallway while they ate dinner. They cooked together more often, Monroe learning French words for ingredients, Chloé learning how to make a proper roast potato.
Evenings after dinner had their tempo now as well. Sometimes they watched old films—French cinema for Monroe’s education—and sometimes they sat outside with a glass of wine, wrapped in a blanket and talking about nothing and everything until it got too cold. There was less pressure now, less trying to make thingsfeelperfect. They were simply living, and that was enough.
Monroe still missed home sometimes, but it wasn’t as pointed anymore. The ache had dulled, softened by the day-to-day moments she and Chloé were building together, and of course, the video calls with Kitty.
And when Chloé reached across the sofa to tuck Monroe’s feet into her lap, murmuring a soft, “Mon amour,” before pressing a kiss to her ankle, Monroe felt it.
She was exactly where she was meant to be.
Until where she was meant to be became somewhere else—an urgent somewhere else.
The call had come in the evening, just as they’d gotten home. Monroe was giggling as Chloé tickled her and pinned her to the counter to kiss her.
“I love you,” she whispered just as the shrill sound rung out. Monroe ignored it, enjoying the way Chloé’s lips moved against hers.
The shrill sound rang out again. This time, Monroe pulled back with a breathless laugh, reaching blindly for her phone where it buzzed on the side. The screen flashedPoppy.
Her smile faltered.
“Hang on,” she murmured, swiping to answer. “Hey, Pops—”
She didn’t even get the rest of the greeting out.
Chloé watched Monroe’s expression shift, eyes widening, her breath catching.
“Yes, that’s me.” Monroe’s voice was tight. She stood still, listening intently. “Okay…yes. I can do that.”
The call disconnected. She stared at Chloé, eyes already glossed with shock. “That was the police. I need to go home.”
“Of course,” Chloé said at once, stepping forwards. “What’s happened?”
