Page 49 of Je T'aime, Actually

Monroe smirked. “Nope. Just good at patching things up.”

She carefully cleaned the cut, applied some antiseptic, and fixed a large plaster over the worst of it. Benji winced but didn’t complain.

“All done,” Monroe said, sitting back on her heels. “Now, who wants to help me clean up this mud trail you’ve all kindly decorated the house with?”

The boys groaned, but it was good-natured. Benji gave her a grateful grin, and Poppy leant in to kiss the top of his head.

As the boys scattered upstairs, dragging muddy socks and laughter in their wake, Monroe stood and followed Poppy into the kitchen. The house was full—of noise, of mess, of life—and Monroe felt, not for the first time, she truly belonged here.

Monroe and Poppy stood side by side at the kitchen sink, rinsing hands.

“You could just go to France this weekend,” Poppy said, her tone casual but pointed. She flicked the kettle on.

Monroe blinked, drying her hands slowly. “What, just turn up?”

Poppy laughed, shaking her head. “Why not? It’s not like she wouldn’t want to see you.”

Monroe chewed on her bottom lip. “Yeah, but…what if she’s busy?”

Poppy gave her a sidelong look. “What if it doesn’t matter?”

Monroe considered Poppy’s words, the question hanging between them like a challenge.

Giving her shoulder a playful nudge, Poppy said, “You’re like a lovesick teenager who’s watched too many romance movies.”

“I am not,” Monroe replied indignantly.

“Yes, you are. Every time I catch you when you think no one’s looking, you’ve got this sad little face on.” Poppy grinned. “You miss her. It’s allowed.”

Monroe gave a reluctant smile, shaking her head. “Maybe I do.”

Poppy’s grin widened. “Good. Now stop worrying so much and figure out what you want. Life’s too short for ‘what-ifs’.”

Monroe looked out the window, the late-afternoon light clearing her thoughts. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I just need to go for it.”

forty

It was another risk she was willing to take. One born of romance and little else. Poppy, her best friend and fiercest champion, was right: Life was too short not to go after what you wanted.

So what if her bank account had taken a hit from the extra flights? This one had been reasonably cheap, thanks to the waning tourist season, now the summer crowds had gone.

She’d put in longer hours over the past two days just to make it work, managing to book a late-afternoon flight from Gatwick to Nantes. From there, it was a short taxi ride to Chloé’s. She’d arrive by seven—just in time for dinner together and, well...

Her thoughts drifted to the blue negligée tucked neatly in her overnight bag, and a slow smile curled at the edges of her lips.

“Juste ici, s’il vous plaît,” Monroe said to the taxi driver as they turned down the familiar lane toward Chloé’s farmhouse.

He pulled into the narrow drive, and Monroe handed him enough cash to cover the fare. “Merci,” she said, climbing out of the car and pulling her small suitcase behind her.

She grinned up at the house, heart picking up pace, and pushed open the gate. The gravel crunched softly under her boots as she walked the short path, turning the final corner to stand before the front door.

She knew it would be unlocked— Chloé rarely locked it—but she knocked anyway.

There was a pause, then the sound of approaching footsteps.

The door opened.

A woman around Monroe’s age stood on the threshold—striking, though in a sharp-edged way. Pinched features and tightly pulled hair, a guarded expression.