Page 17 of Je T'aime, Actually

He shrugged. “Still smells nice.”

“Come in before they mob you completely,” Poppy called from the kitchen. She had her hair scraped into a bun, a tea towel slung over her shoulder, and was already pouring Monroe a coffee. “I made it strong,” she said, handing Monroe the mug. “Figured you’d need it after your date with Miss Hot and French.”

Monroe rolled her eyes and sank into a chair. “She has a name—Chloé.”

“Hot. French. Chloé.” Poppy grinned. “Go on then, spill.”

“It was…actually lovely.”

“Actually? That’s what you’re opening with?”

Monroe tried not to grin. “She’s easy to talk to. Funny. Really smart. There’s a calmness about her. But not in a boring way. Just…steady.”

Poppy gave a nod of approval. “And? Are you seeing her again?”

“I offered to cook. A roast.”

Poppy nearly dropped the biscuit tin. “You’recookingfor her today? Jesus, Mon, youaregone.”

“I just thought, she’s here for a week, and I wanted to. It felt right.”

Poppy raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “You didn’t even roast a chicken for Justine.”

“Well, that was different. And Ididcook for her,” she said indignantly.

“Sure,” Poppy said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Alright, what are you making?”

“Lamb. I’ve got rosemary, garlic…the works.”

“You’re feeding a beautiful French woman a home-cooked roast. She’ll fall in love with you by pudding.”

Monroe blushed, sipping her coffee. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

Before Monroe could answer, Kitty dashed into the room with a drawing of a cat on a rainbow. “I made this for you,” she announced.

“Well,” Monroe said, accepting it with mock ceremony, “I don’t think my day could get better than this.”

Poppy smirked. “Just wait ‘til you burn the spuds.”

“Don’t jinx me.” Monroe laughed.

thirteen

Chloé had received the text from Monroe an hour ago.

Monroe: Good morning ?? I hope you slept well. Here’s my address for later: 22 Shankly Street, Sandham. Shall we say 2pm? Let me know if you need anything. Looking forward to it.

She sat on the pier, watching as a seagull swooped down and snatched up a discarded chip someone must have dropped. The light breeze brought the salty air. Her phone rested in her lap, the screen still lit from reading the text.

It would be a lie to suggest she hadn’t felt it; the stirrings of something new, something with potential. Yet, a cautionary thought lingered at the back of her mind.

A woman like Monroe wasn’t new to Chloé.

Slightly vulnerable, a little delicate where love was concerned. She’d met those women before, hadn’t she? The ones she rode in like a knight on a white horse to save—only to find herself the one who needed saving when they healed and casually discarded her for someone just like the person who had hurt them.

Chloé picked up her phone, fingers hesitating for a moment before she began to type.