Page 67 of Je T'aime, Actually

Monroe would be arriving soon.

For a moment, Chloé let her thoughts drift back to that chance encounter at the airport—the moment she’d dared to speak to the beautiful English woman who looked so lost, so sad.

She’d never imagined it would become anything more than a fleeting exchange with a stranger—certainly not a romance. Certainly notthis—a love that had slipped past her defences and was now about to move into her life full-time.

Every spare minute outside the office these past few days had been spent preparing her home for Monroe. She wanted everything to feel easy, comfortable, lived-in, like Monroe already belonged there.

Their video calls had helped. Chloé had a fairly good idea of what Monroe was bringing with her: mostly clothes and essentials, a few books, some framed photos, important paperwork. The rest, she’d said, would come later,ifthis worked.

Chloé had cleared drawers and shifted half her wardrobe into the spare room. She’d emptied shelves in the lounge for Monroe’s books and her bits and pieces. The farmhouse felt different already—lighter—like it was holding its breath in anticipation, too.

All that remained was to finish up her work for the day, stop at the bakery for fresh bread and cheese, open a bottle of wine, and be ready—reallyready—for Monroe’s arrival.

Chloé closed her laptop with a heavy sigh, the soft click sounding louder than it should in the stillness of her office. Her eyes drifted towards the wall clock.

Almost six.

“Merde.”

She was meant to have left an hour ago.

Grabbing her bag and jacket, she shoved a few loose papers into a drawer, flicked off the desk lamp, and hurried out, her heels tapping sharply against the floor. Monroe would be close by now—maybe even nearly here.

And Chloé was running late.

fifty-five

Monroe hadn’t noticed before, just how many roundabouts there were in France. She’d thought the UK was bad, but out here it was like someone had designed the entire road system with a compass and a sense of humour. In some towns, she’d ended up circling the same flowerbed three times, trying to decode the unfamiliar signs. She probably should have paid more attention whenever Chloé drove her anywhere, she considered, but she’d been too busy paying attention to Chloé.

At first, she’d been tense, gripping the wheel, cursing softly under her breath, perilously close to pulling over and calling Chloé for help. But then she’d remembered Kitty, no more than five at the time, giggling in the back seat as they’d gone around the roundabout“just one more time”for fun. It made her smile, and the tightness in her chest had eased, and she’d gone around one more time just for the fun of it.

From then on, she was fine, even when she missed a turn and ended up halfway down a country road lined with vines and sleepy farmhouses before managing to swing back.

She glanced at the clock. Gone seven.

At least another thirty minutes to go. But she was close now—so close she could feel it.

The nerves.

The anticipation.

The flutter of something that felt dangerously close to joy.

She turned the volume down on the radio and focused. Almost there.

Finally, she turned right, onto the narrow road that led to Chloé’s house.

Herhouse, Monroe reminded herself, a flicker of disbelief tightening in her chest. It still didn’t feel real—France, a farmhouse, and a French lover who looked at her like the sun rose just for Monroe.

Nobody else was on the road, but she signalled anyway, habit and nerves working in tandem. She slowed and pulled into the gravelled area beside Chloé’s car—a sleek little convertible that always made Monroe smile. The SUV’s headlights bathed the space in warm gold before going dark as she switched off the engine.

And then—quiet.

She let out a breath and sat there for a second. She was here. She’d made it.

When she finally looked up, Chloé was already there, standing at the gate, hands tucked into her jeans pockets, lit faintly by the glow spilling out from the front porch. Her smile was wide and warm and full of something that made Monroe’s chest ache—in the best way.

Like a kid at Christmas, Monroe thought. Or like someone who’d just been handed everything they wanted and couldn’t quite believe it was theirs.