3. Chapter 3
three
The plane began its descent, the patchwork of fields and rooftops growing clearer beneath them. Monroe shifted in her seat, trying not to overthink the flutter in her chest.
An hour ago, she hadn’t expected anything more than a quiet flight. Now she was aware of every small movement Chloé made beside her: the way her fingers rested lightly on the armrest, how her perfume still lingered—warm, clean, and unfamiliar.
She was striking. Monroe had noticed that straight away; effortlessly put together without trying too hard, with a kind of easy confidence that drew the eye. There was something in her voice, too—measured, but playful.
And those eyes.
Steady.
Curious.
Dangerous , Monroe reminded herself. But still...
As the wheels touched down smoothly, Chloé turned to her, voice soft but clear, “So, when we get off this plane…maybe we swap numbers? And, if you’re up for it, go for a drink?”
Monroe looked at her, surprised and a little caught out. For a second, she thought about declining, stepping back into the neatly guarded life she’d carefully rebuilt.
But there was something about Chloé’s expression—open, not pushy, quietly confident—that made Monroe’s chest ache in a way she hadn’t let herself feel in months.
“A drink, huh?”
Chloé’s smile broadened, but she didn’t press. “Only if you want to. No pressure.”
Monroe paused, then nodded. “Alright. Why not?”
They stood together as the cabin filled with rustling bags and shifting passengers, and as they stepped out into the aisle, Monroe felt that small, surprising flicker again; the kind of feeling she thought she’d buried somewhere in the French countryside.
Chloé turned to her with that same easy smile. “I meant it, by the way...the drink.”
Monroe nodded, feeling suddenly shy. “Yeah, I know.”
There was a brief pause before Chloé pulled her phone from her coat pocket and held it out. “Number?”
Monroe took it, keyed in her digits with a slight hitch in her breath, and handed it back. Chloé glanced down, saving the contact.
“Monroe Carpenter,” she said aloud, the name rolling off her tongue in that lilting accent. “It does have a bit of movie star flair.”
Monroe raised an eyebrow. “Tragically wasted on spreadsheets.”
Chloé grinned. “Maybe not entirely.”
Then, before Monroe could prepare for it, Chloé leant in and kissed her cheeks—left, then right. The effortless, familiar French farewell. Nothing lingered, no suggestive pause, and yet Monroe’s skin lit up beneath the soft brush of contact. Her stomach gave an involuntary flutter.
God. Butterflies. She hadn’t had those in ages.
Chloé pulled back, eyes kind. “I’ll message you. We’ll figure something out.”
Monroe managed a small smile. “Okay.”
And then Chloé was walking away, blending into the crowd with her suitcase trailing behind, while Monroe stood still, phone in hand, cheeks slightly warm, her heart beating faster than it had all week.