15. Chapter 15
fifteen
D inner had lived up to every expectation.
The lamb had been tender, roasted with garlic and rosemary that perfumed the kitchen before Chloé even stepped inside.
Crisp-edged potatoes, rich gravy, buttered greens, and a glass of red that paired better than Monroe gave herself credit for.
It wasn’t just the food, though. It was the way Monroe moved—half flustered, half composed—with a kind of casual grace that made the whole thing feel effortless.
Now they were on the sofa, plates cleared, second glasses in hand.
The light outside had softened, moving into the early evening.
Chloé leant back, legs curled beneath her, watching Monroe as she laughed at something Chloé had just said—really laughed, head thrown back a little, eyes crinkling at the edges.
She looked different from the woman on the plane.
Lighter. Or maybe Chloé was just seeing more of her.
She liked that. She liked her.
It was dangerous, wasn’t it? To feel this kind of spark so soon. Chloé had known infatuation—been charmed and charming, more times than she cared to admit—but this had a different feel to it. There was a gentleness about Monroe, a thoughtfulness that pulled at something in her.
Chloé sipped her wine, then tilted her head slightly.
“I have to say,” she said, her voice low, teasing, “you’ve completely ruined restaurant roasts for me now.”
Monroe looked over, one eyebrow raised. “That good?”
Chloé nodded. “Better. There’s something... comforting about a meal made in someone’s home. It’s the kind of thing that lingers, non ?”
She paused, watching Monroe for a second too long, letting the silence hold just enough to settle into something warm between them.
“It lingers,” she repeated, more softly this time.
There it was again—that almost moment. The pause where something could happen, and they’d both sensed it. But Chloé didn’t move. Not yet. She knew enough now to let this unfold slowly. To wait.
Chloé felt the moment shift before it happened. Monroe had gone quiet beside her, and her body stilled, the easy rhythm between them faltering for just a breath.
When she turned to look, Monroe was already halfway leaning in. Not bold or certain—more like assessing the ground beneath her feet. Chloé didn’t move; didn’t rush to meet her, didn’t pull away. She let Monroe come to her.
The kiss was light. Barely there. A brush of lips that carried more curiosity than confidence. And when Monroe pulled back, her eyes were wide with surprise, searching Chloé’s.
“I didn’t think I’d do that,” she said, almost to herself.
Chloé smiled, slow and warm. “And yet, you did.”
Monroe’s mouth twitched with a self-conscious smile. “I wanted to see how it felt.”
“And?”
A pause, then, “Nice. A little terrifying.”
Chloé reached across and lightly touched Monroe’s cheek, just a fingertip tracing gently. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
“I know,” Monroe said. But she didn’t pull away. “My last relationship did a number on me, and I guess I’m more cautious of anything new… I wasn’t looking, but you’re here and—"
Her voice faltered, and she gave a soft, frustrated laugh, glancing down at her hands.
“I’m not saying this very well.”
“You’re saying it perfectly,” Chloé replied gently. “You’re being honest.”
Monroe looked up at her then, properly, eyes searching. “I don’t want to rush or ruin something before it begins.”
“Then we won’t,” Chloé said simply. “We take our time. We see what feels good. No pressure, no expectations.”
A quiet moment passed between them. Monroe’s eyes softened, and her shoulders lowered— not relaxed, exactly, but no longer so braced. Chloé could see the trust forming, fragile but real.
“Thank you,” Monroe said.
Chloé smiled. “For what?”
“For not needing me to be anything other than what I am right now.”
“Of course,” Chloé said, brushing a stray hair behind Monroe’s ear. “And right now, you’re kind of wonderful.”
That made Monroe laugh properly, a little surprised and a little shy.
“Alright,” she said, clearing her throat. “Let’s have pudding before I get all emotional.”
Chloé laughed too. “Only if it’s something very British and comforting.”
“It’s crumble,” Monroe said, standing. “With custard.”
“Then I forgive you for everything.”