9. Chapter 9
nine
F eeling herself being observed, Chloé glanced up and beamed as she spotted Monroe approaching. She stood to greet her, slipping her sunglasses onto the table as Monroe drew closer.
The double kiss came naturally—left, then right.“ Bonsoir ,” she murmured on the second kiss, her voice low and close, just shy of a whisper.
It sent something through Monroe, unexpected and warm. Her cheeks flushed before she could stop it.
“Hi,” she managed with a small, slightly breathless grin.
Chloé didn’t move straight away, and neither did Monroe. For just a second too long, they stood there, closer than strangers should be, the space between them laced with the faint scent of perfume and sea air.
Monroe’s heart ticked faster than she liked. It wasn’t just the kiss, or the way Chloé had said ‘ Bonsoir’ soft and self-assured—it was the way she was looking at her now: direct, unhurried, as though she were reading something in Monroe’s face that even Monroe hadn’t quite figured out yet.
“Sorry,” Monroe said finally, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You caught me off guard.”
Chloé smiled, and there was the tiniest flicker of amusement in her eyes. “Good surprise, I hope?”
“I think so,” Monroe said, and then added, “Yes. Definitely.”
They stood like that for another moment before Chloé gestured to the table. “Shall we?”
They sat, the metal chairs scraping lightly against the pavement. Monroe folded her hands in her lap for a second before reaching for the menu, mostly for something to do.
“It’s been ages since I’ve been down here,” Monroe said, glancing around at the street. “Brighton, I mean. Used to come with friends in my twenties, when we thought we were edgy for drinking on the beach.”
Chloé smiled, resting her chin lightly on one hand. “And now?”
“Now I’m not impressed at the idea of stones in my shoes.” Monroe laughed, the sound a little self-conscious. “Though the sea air’s nice.”
“You don’t live far, non ?”
“About twenty minutes by train. A little village—very sleepy, lots of dog walkers and allotments.” She caught Chloé’s amused look and raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing. I just can’t decide if that sounds peaceful or like the start of a murder mystery.”
Monroe grinned. “Both are probably true.”
A server passed by and Chloé caught their attention with a small nod. “Do you drink wine, or...”
“Sure,” Monroe said, grateful for the distraction. “White, if that’s alright.”
“Perfect,” Chloé said, ordering a carafe of chilled white with the kind of fluency Monroe always envied in people who weren’t, well, slightly flustered.
The server returned almost immediately with their drinks—a chilled carafe and two glasses—and set them down with a polite smile before disappearing again.
Monroe poured for both of them, glad for the small distraction. She handed Chloé her glass, their fingers brushing just slightly.
“ Merci, ” Chloé said, settling back in her chair.
They each took a sip, the conversation paused, just the hum of the city evening filled the space between them—nearby laughter, clinking cutlery, distant seagulls.
Then Chloé tilted her head slightly. “Do I make you nervous?” she asked, soft but direct.
Monroe hesitated, her fingers brushing the condensation on her glass. She let out a quiet breath. “A little.”
Chloé smiled, slow and pleased. “That’s not a bad thing.”
Monroe looked at her, properly now. “I’m just a bit out of practice with...all this.”
“I guessed,” Chloé said gently. “But you’re doing fine.”
That earned a smile in return. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure if I was.”
“You are,” Chloé said, lifting her glass slightly. “To second chances.”
Monroe clinked her glass against Chloé’s. “And very patient drinking companions.”
Chloé set her glass down and leant forward a little, her elbow resting lightly on the table. “So,” she said, with a smile that was equal parts curiosity and charm, “tell me about you. What makes Monroe…tick?”
Monroe let out a soft laugh, eyes briefly widening. “God, that’s a big one.”
“Start small,” Chloé offered. “I’m patient, remember?”
Monroe looked down at her wine, swirling it slightly. “Alright. I like quiet mornings. I’m a bit obsessive about lists. I’m very good at organising other people’s chaos, and terrible at managing my own.”
Chloé laughed at that, a warm, low sound.
“I work too much,” Monroe added. “I hate networking. I love thunderstorms, but only if I’m indoors. I’m a bit of a clean freak, and I get emotionally attached to fictional characters far too easily, and I—”
She stopped herself, suddenly aware of how much she was giving away.
“You?” she asked, deflecting with a small smile. “What makes Chloé tick?”
Chloé’s expression softened. “Hmm. I like good questions. And people who are brave enough to answer them.”
“I’m brave enough.” Monroe grinned. “Probably too brave—that’s usually what gets me into trouble.”
“Because you take a leap of faith?”
“Jump in with both feet usually,” Monroe said, but in the back of her mind, a quiet voice whispered, You didn’t last time.
Chloé’s mouth widened, lips curving, her eyes flickering with something gentle yet knowing.
“Maybe it’s not about how deep you jump, but where you choose to land.” She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind Monroe’s ear. “And sometimes, the hardest part is trusting the ground will be there.”