Page 46 of Je T'aime, Actually

Monroe turned, her gaze searching. “This isn’t just a weekend thing, Chloé. I need to know we’re not pretending it’s easy.”

“It’s not,” Chloé said. “I’ll come to you next.”

A nod, barely there. Monroe gave a small, wry smile. “We’ll figure it out.”

Chloé reached over and took her hand, squeezing it once, firm and steady. “One day at a time.”

Monroe leant in and kissed her, unhurried, familiar now. When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against Chloé’s. “Soon,” she said.

“Yes,” Chloé replied, “soon.”

Monroe opened the door and stepped out, the evening air crisp against her skin. She reached into the back seat and pulled her small suitcase out, the wheels bumping gently as she turned towards the terminal.

She paused at the entrance and looked back.

Chloé was still there, her silhouette framed by the car’s interior lights. One hand rested on the steering wheel, the other loosely in her lap. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes stayed fixed on Monroe.

Monroe raised a hand. Chloé returned the gesture, slow and steady. Neither of them moved for a moment, like they were holding something between them neither wanted to let go of just yet.

Then the glass doors slid open behind Monroe, and she turned, walking into the brightness of the terminal.

Her week was full. She’d made sure of that. Meetings were stacked back-to-back, spreadsheets waiting. And there was Poppy, always a text away, and the kids, who never failed to wear her out and lift her up in equal measure. She would just keep herself busy and make sure her life was occupied.

And soon enough, Chloé would be visiting.

It could work. Itwouldwork.

One day at a time.

thirty-eight

They fell into a pattern—not something they planned—just something that happened, like the natural rhythm of a tide returning to shore. Mornings came with alarms and coffee, workdays passed in meetings and spreadsheets for Monroe, and editorial calls and quiet decision-making for Chloé. Evenings were for catching up with friends, errands, and the little rituals of everyday life.

And then, without fail, came the call.

Nine o’clock Monroe time. Ten for Chloé.

Always while in bed, hair down, faces clean, the glow of their phones softening everything. Monroe would be propped against pillows, often still in a hoodie or her dressing gown; Chloé, backlit by a small lamp, usually with a glass of water or a book nearby.

They talked about everything and nothing: how the day had gone, a funny thing a client had said, a new pastry shop opening around the corner.

Sometimes they talked about seeing each other again—when, how long, what they’d do. And sometimes, they just looked at each other—really looked—letting distance fall away for a few stolen minutes before sleep took them both.

It wasn’t perfect. But it felt steady. And real.

Monroe hit the video call and sat up a little straighter in bed, the light blue negligée hugging her in a way that made her feel quietly confident—sexy, even. She smiled as she waited for the screen to flicker to life—for Chloé’s face to appear, as eager to see her as she was to be seen.

And there it was. That familiar face, the one that made her heart lift, except something was off. The smile was there, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Hey, baby,” Chloé said. Her voice sounded tired; the kind of tired that wasn’t just about sleep.

“Hey,” Monroe replied gently. “What’s up?”

Chloé hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “That obvious, huh?” Her smile faltered. “I’ve got some good news, and some bad news.”

Monroe’s stomach tightened. “Okay… I never know which way around is best. I guess…bad news first?”

Chloé sighed, rubbing at her temple before meeting Monroe’s gaze again. “I can’t come over this weekend. Not like we planned. There’s been a shift with the takeover—new conditions, more pressure. I need to be here. I have to oversee things personally. If I could get out of it, I would. But I need to stand for my team.”