Page 41 of Je T'aime, Actually
Monroe leant her head against the window, letting the rhythm of the motorway and the low hum of the car settle into her bones. Her eyes were half-lidded, relaxed, but not tired, just content. Chloé’s hand rested lightly on her thigh now, fingers brushing hers every so often.
Then, something outside the window caught Monroe’s eye. A sign. A bend in the road.
She sat up a little straighter.
Another sign. That junction. That row of plane trees.
No way.
As the motorway slipped behind them and the road narrowed into winding countryside, Monroe blinked, leaning forwards now, gaze scanning the hedgerows and familiar old stone markers.
“This…” she said, slowly. “This road feels really familiar.”
Chloé glanced over. “Does it?”
“Yeah. I mean—I’m sure it’s just coincidence but—” Monroe broke off as the car curved down into a lane that stirredsomething deep in her chest. “No. No, it’s not. Iknowthis route. Idrovethis route. Repeatedly.”
They passed a little weather-worn sign at the end of a gravel drive.
“Oh my God.”
Chloé frowned as she turned in through a wide gate and into a gravelled courtyard. The tyres crunched beneath them as the car came to a stop beside a charming, ivy-draped farmhouse, its pale shutters open, sunlight spilling across the old stones.
She looked at Monroe. “Is everything okay?”
Monroe stared, mouth parted slightly. “You’re joking.”
Chloé blinked. “What?”
“We werethisclose?” Monroe turned to her, half-laughing, half-reeling. “You’re telling me—when I was holed up in that cottage having an existential crisis about my ex—you were right down the bloody road?”
Chloé’s mouth opened, then closed again. “I…had no idea. Otherwise, I’d have found you.”
Monroe shook her head, looking around again in disbelief. “The number of lonely walks I took near here... I could’ve literally bumped into you in a field.”
Chloé stepped out of the car, walked around, and opened Monroe’s door. “Well, we didn’t meet then, but you’re here now.”
Monroe stepped out, taking in the house, the scent of lavender in the air, the view rolling out beyond the hedges. “This is surreal.”
Chloé popped the boot and hauled Monroe’s case out with ease. “Let’s get inside,” she said with a smile. “I have dinner cooking.”
“You cooked?” Monroe raised a brow as she followed her towards the front door.
“I do know how...occasionally.” Chloé shot her a playful look over her shoulder. “And you’ve had a long day. I thought you might appreciate not having to lift a finger.”
Monroe laughed softly. “You really are pulling out all the stops, huh?”
“For you?” Chloé opened the door and stepped aside to let her in. “Absolutely.”
Warm air and the scent of roasting garlic, thyme, and something buttery met them as they stepped into the house. Monroe blinked, momentarily taken aback by howhomeyit felt—exposed beams, soft light, shelves stacked with books, and music playing softly in the background.
Chloé set the suitcase down. “Give me two minutes to check on the oven, then I’ll give you the full tour.”
Monroe took the opportunity to look around. It was certainly a more impressive building than the smallgîteshe had rented—not that that place didn’t have its charm—but this was something else.
There were little touches that made it unmistakably Chloé’s: worn, dog-eared books stacked by the windowsill, a faded poster of a French jazz singer on the wall, and a few ornaments ranging from the plastic toys you found in chocolate eggs to genuine pieces of art.
It was eclectic.
