6. Chapter 6
six
M onroe smiled at the response. I like honest.
Who didn’t, she thought—but then Justine’s face flashed uninvited into her mind and she winced; quietly, inwardly.
She’d thought they’d been honest with each other. Hadn’t they? At least at first, they had, when everything had felt light and effortless. When there was no talk of the future, no need to define anything. Just fun, laughter, chemistry. All those easy beginnings.
But the moment Monroe had asked for more—something steady, something real—that was when it had shifted. The honesty had frayed. The truth turned slippery.
Suddenly it was, “I’m just not ready,” and, “Can’t we just enjoy what we have?” and that endless dance around commitment that always left Monroe feeling like she was asking too much, when really, she hadn’t asked for much at all.
Just not to be lied to. Or led on.
She glanced back down at her phone. Chloé’s reply sat there. Simple. Warm. No promises, no hidden edge. A drink, no pressure.
It was just a message. It didn’t feel like a game.
She tucked the phone into her pocket.
Then, toast finished and suitcase still untouched and sitting by the wardrobe upstairs, she went to bed.
Monroe had just finished folding the laundry when the knock came at the door—three short taps followed by a pause: Poppy’s signature.
She was already smiling as she opened it to find her friend pulling a cardigan tighter around her shoulders, cheeks flushed from the cool evening air.
“Thought I’d pop in while Frank’s wrangling bath time,” Poppy said, breezing in with the familiar energy of someone who’d known Monroe long enough not to need an invitation. “Kitty’s insisting on wearing goggles in the tub again. Frank’s thrilled.”
Monroe laughed, stepping aside to let her in. “Come on, you need tea.”
“God, yes. I’ve been talking to tiny people all day.”
Monroe put the kettle on while Poppy collapsed into the armchair, kicking off her shoes.
“So?” Poppy called from the living room. “How was France? You’ve been very cagey on text.”
Monroe poured the hot water, setting two mugs on the tray alongside the biscuits she’d bought for herself. She carried everything through, setting it on the coffee table with a small flourish.
“It was quiet,” she said, curling onto the sofa, “which was the whole point, really.”
Poppy took a sip and raised an eyebrow. “Quiet, but not uneventful?”
Monroe shrugged, trying not to smile.
“Spill it.”
“There was a woman.”
Poppy almost choked on her tea. “Oh, thank God . I was starting to worry you were going full hermit.”
Monroe rolled her eyes. “It was just...a chat. On the plane. Nothing dramatic.”
Poppy narrowed her eyes. “But enough to mention her.”
“She was nice. French. Very charming, in that slightly dangerous way.”
Poppy gave a wicked grin. “Dangerous? I like her already. What’s her name?”
“Chloé.”
“Ooh, of course it is. And?”
Monroe hesitated. “And we swapped numbers. She messaged me already.”
“Eager!” Poppy looked genuinely pleased. “Are you going to see her?”
Monroe stirred her tea slowly, watching the steam rise. “Maybe. I said I would. A drink. Nothing serious.”
“That’s allowed, you know.”
“I know.” She paused. “I just...don’t want to fall into something just because I’m lonely.”
Poppy’s face softened. “You won’t. You’re not that person. And if it’s just a drink, it’s just a drink.”
They sat in a companionable silence for a few moments, sipping tea, the familiar comfort of the room easing something unsettled in Monroe.
From somewhere in the distance, a muffled ding signalled another message. Monroe didn’t reach for her phone.
Poppy raised an eyebrow. “That her?”
“Probably.”
“You’re not going to check?”
“In a minute.”
Poppy reached for a biscuit. “So...is she sexy?”
Monroe tried not to blush. “Ridiculously.”
The front door clicked shut with a final goodbye, Poppy disappearing into the soft blue dusk with promises to message when the kids were down and a half-empty pack of biscuits tucked under her arm.
Monroe tidied up slowly—mugs to the sink, cushions fluffed out of habit, the calm returning to the house like a long exhale. It was only then she remembered her phone.
It was exactly where she’d left it on the sofa arm, the screen dark. She picked it up, tapped it awake, and there it was.
Chloé.
She opened the message, expecting something light, maybe a follow-up joke. Instead, she read:
Chloe: I’m trying to appear nonchalant, but the reality is…I’m looking forward to our drinks. Would tomorrow be too soon?
Monroe blinked at it, her lips pulling into an involuntary smile.
There it was again—that quiet confidence Chloé had. No pressure, no fuss, just a little glimpse of vulnerability wrapped in charm. The kind of message that made it easy to say yes.
She sank into the corner of the sofa, phone resting against her palm.
Tomorrow.
She hadn’t planned on anything so soon. She still felt a little emotionally tangled; still bruised in the places no one could see. But there was something about Chloé that didn’t feel like a risk.
Just...real.
Present.
Alive.
And time was probably something she should consider. Chloé wouldn’t be here forever.
She stared at the message a moment longer, then typed:
Monroe: Tomorrow’s not too soon. Suggest somewhere. I’m trusting your good taste and French instincts.
She hit send before she could second-guess herself.
Then she placed the phone face down on the coffee table and leant back, heart tapping a little faster than it had an hour ago.