10. Chapter 10
ten
O ne glass of wine had turned into three, and before Monroe knew it, the night was almost over.
Her cheeks ached from laughing, and at some point, their chairs had drifted closer together.
The bar had filled up, people pulling chairs around tables, crowding in with friends, and adding a soft background hum to their bubble of two.
“I think the bar is closing,” Chloé said, glancing towards the staff clearing glasses.
Monroe checked her watch. “Yes...I guess it is.”
“In all honesty,” Chloé said, lowering her voice slightly, “I don’t want the night to end just yet.”
“Me either,” Monroe admitted.
Chloé tilted her head, hopeful. “Maybe…we take a walk? Along the…how you say? Sea road?”
“Seafront,” Monroe corrected with a smile. “Yes, I’d like that.”
As they stood to leave, Monroe instinctively reached for her bag, but Chloé was quicker.
“I’ve got it.” Handing her card to the bartender with a flash of that disarming smile.
“Are you sure?” Monroe asked.
“I invited you, didn’t I?” Chloé winked. “Next time, you can argue.”
Monroe laughed. “Next time, I’m paying.”
“So, there’s a next time?”
Monroe met her gaze. “I hope so.”
They left the bar, stepping out into the cooler night air. The breeze carried the scent of salt and seaweed, long after sunset. The seafront buzzed with the low chatter of other evening stragglers—people walking dogs, eating chips on benches, holding hands, not quite ready to go home either.
“This is nice,” Monroe said, after a moment of silence that didn’t feel awkward.
Chloé nodded. “It is. I always forget how calming the sea can be. The sound of it...like it’s breathing.”
Monroe glanced out over the dark water. “It makes me feel...like I can exhale.”
Chloé looked at her gently. “You don’t, usually?”
“Not lately,” Monroe admitted.
A gust of wind caught her by surprise, and she wrapped her arms around herself with a small shiver.
“You’re cold,” Chloé observed. She didn’t ask, just unwrapped the light scarf from around her neck and offered it.
Monroe hesitated. “You’ll be cold.”
“I run hot,” Chloé said with a shrug and a smile. “Besides, this is English weather. I’m prepared.” She indicated her coat.
Monroe took the scarf, soft and smelling faintly of perfume, of Chloé—fruity, maybe lemon—something unfamiliar but evocative.
“ Merci ,” she murmured.
Chloé’s brow lifted, impressed. “Your accent isn’t bad.”
“It’s the only word I can say properly.”
“Good word to know.”
They smiled at each other, and for a moment it felt like the whole street had quieted around them.
They reached the part of the promenade where the road sloped upwards towards the train station. A taxi rank glowed dimly a little further along, but Monroe had already slowed her pace.
“This is me,” she said softly, glancing up the hill.
Chloé stopped with her, her hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call you a taxi?”
Monroe smiled. “I’m fine. It’s just up there, and I could probably use the walk.”
“I wouldn’t want you getting lost in Brighton’s treacherous hills,” Chloé teased, though her eyes were serious.
“I’ll survive,” Monroe said gently. “I’ve made it through worse.”
That hung between them for a second. The kind of line that invited follow-up, but didn’t need one.
Chloé stepped just a little closer, not quite touching. “Well...thank you for saying yes.”
Monroe tilted her head. “Thank you for asking.”
There was another moment. A stillness between them. That slow, lingering pause that so often came before a kiss. Monroe felt it, her breath catching slightly, her body tilting forward before her mind caught up. She knew it. Chloé knew it.
But Chloé didn’t move.
Instead, she offered a soft smile and gently touched Monroe’s arm. “ Bonne nuit , Monroe.”
Monroe’s eyes held hers. “Goodnight, Chloé.”
And with that, they parted. Monroe turned and headed up the hill, scarf still tucked close to her neck. Chloé watched her go, hands still in her pockets, heart knocking quietly in her chest.