Page 27 of Je T'aime, Actually
But something about the open way Monroe was looking at her—curious, but not prying—made her pause.
“It was…a conversation I’ve been putting off for too long,” Chloé said slowly, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “It’s about my company. It’s struggling.”
Monroe turned slightly, giving her more attention now, though she didn’t interrupt.
“I’ve built it from the ground up. Small, independent, the kind of stories no one else was publishing. But it’s getting harder to stay afloat.” She swallowed. “Today was a meeting with a larger house. They want to buy me out.”
Monroe’s brow lifted just slightly. “Do you want to sell?”
Chloé looked at her, honest now. “No. But I might have to.”
Monroe leant a hip against the counter, still holding the pepper mill. “That sounds…hard. Letting go of something that still has life in it.”
Chloé let out a dry laugh. “Exactly. It feels like I’d be trading heart for structure. Safety, but no soul.”
There was a quiet moment, broken only by the soft hiss of the pan.
Then Monroe said gently, “Well, I suppose the question is, if you don’t take the offer, what do you need to keep going? And is that something you can ask for?”
Chloé blinked, something tugging in her chest.
“You didn’t even know what the meeting was about ten seconds ago,” she said, a little smile forming. “And now you sound like you’ve been in publishing for years.”
Monroe gave a modest shrug. “I’m just good at listening.”
And Chloé believed her. Somehow, she really did.
twenty-one
“So, what’s the verdict?” Monroe asked, stacking Chloé’s empty plate neatly on top of her own. The plate was clean, which she took as a good sign.
Chloé smiled and dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. “All in all, I think it was actually very nice.” She reached out and let her fingers rest lightly on Monroe’s hand. “And so was the company. I needed this.”
Monroe’s smile widened, genuine and a little bashful. “Me too.”
Monroe carried the plates into the kitchen, the faint clink of china interrupting the soft quiet of the evening. Chloé followed with the tea cups, setting them carefully beside the sink.
“I could get used to this,” Chloé said, leaning against the counter, watching Monroe scrape the remnants into the compost bin. “Cosy dinners in countryside cottages.”
Monroe smirked over her shoulder. “You mean bubble and squeak and teabags strong enough to revive the dead?”
“Exactly. Total luxury.” Chloé glanced around at the tidy space with overflowing shelves. “I love your kitchen. It’s very you.”
“That’s a polite way of saying ‘chaotic but functional’,” Monroe said, switching the tap on to rinse the dishes.
Chloé laughed. “No, I mean it. It feels…lived-in. Like someone actually cooks here, rather than just fills it with copper pans and matching jars for show.”
“I’ll have you know my mismatched jars are vintage.” Monroe shot her a mock glare.
“Even better,” Chloé said, grinning. “I like places that feel like someone’s put their life into them. You can tell, you know. When something’s been loved.”
Monroe slowed a little at that, her hand resting on the dishcloth. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Her mind went to Justine, who constantly complained about mess before she’d even had the chance to tidy up, even though she never lifted a finger to help.
“I don’t think anyone’s said that about my home before,” she said eventually. “That it feels loved.”
“Well…it does.”
There was something gentle in the way Chloé said it, as if she hadn’t meant to be profound, just honest.
