16. Chapter 16
sixteen
W hen it came time for Chloé to leave, they stood in the hallway, close—too close for it to feel casual anymore—as she slipped her arms into her coat and wrapped the silk scarf loosely around her neck.
“I’ve had a really good time,” she said, smiling at Monroe, eyes warm and steady. “And now, I intend to kiss you.”
“I hoped as much,” Monroe replied, her voice low and honest. She licked her bottom lip, slow and deliberate, before biting it gently and letting it go.
Chloé stepped forward, moving with the kind of quiet confidence that made it feel inevitable they would kiss. Her hands settled lightly on Monroe’s shoulders, then one drifted up, fingertips tracing the line of her neck, before cupping her cheek with careful tenderness.
Monroe’s breath stilled. Her heart didn’t race, exactly, but it definitely thudded.
And then Chloé kissed her.
Softly, at first, lips brushed, evaluating the way forward.
Monroe leant in, parted her lips, and Chloé followed the invitation, her tongue slipping past with slow intention.
It was unhurried, exploratory, nothing rushed or demanding, just warm, open, and sure.
Monroe met her, surprised at how natural it felt; how much she wanted it.
The kiss deepened, not in speed, but in clarity. There was no mistaking the message behind it—desire, yes, but also patience. A promise of sorts, if Monroe wanted it.
When they eventually pulled apart, slowly, reluctantly, Monroe blinked at her, slightly dazed.
“Well,” she said, a little husky, “that was…very French of you.”
Chloé laughed, pleased. “You think I’d do it any other way?”
Monroe smiled, leaning just slightly into the hand still resting on her cheek. “No complaints here.”
Chloé stepped back just enough to reach for the door. “I’ll text when I get back to Brighton.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Monroe said, more certain than she’d expected to be.
She watched as Chloé walked down the path, pausing at the gate to glance back with that easy, unmistakable smile. Monroe raised a hand in parting, then gently closed the door and leant against it.
She touched her lips, just for a second.
Trust the French, she thought, to make even goodbye feel like the beginning of something.
Back on the sofa, it was a bit lonely. Chloé being here had felt as natural as the cushions, the soft throw, the TV remote. Her presence had folded into the space like it belonged there.
Her phone was still in the kitchen, so she got up and wandered in to find it.
She smiled at the neatly stacked boxes of leftovers, cooling before they went into the fridge. The dishwasher was already mid-cycle, humming quietly, with just the two wine glasses by the sink waiting to be rinsed.
Had it really been that simple and domesticated? Cooking anything for Justine had always meant a sink full of dirty crockery left behind, Justine drifting off to sleep, while Monroe was left to clear up the mess.
With her phone in hand, she was already messaging Chloé before she even sat back down on the sofa.
Monroe: My turn to assist your safe travel.
She’d barely put the phone down before the screen lit up and a return message beeped its arrival.
Chloé: I’ve literally just got on the train. Missing me already…one hopes.
Monroe chuckled as she began to type furiously.
Monroe: Am I that obvious?
Chloé: A little…but I like it.
Monroe smiled, curling her legs beneath her as she settled back into the warm dent in the sofa.
Monroe: A little mystery never hurt anyone, you know.
Chloé: True…but I find honesty very appealing, especially when it’s flattering.
Her thumb hesitated briefly before tapping again.
Monroe: Then let me be honest. Today was lovely. You’re lovely.
Chloé: Careful, I’ll be booking another train back tonight.
Monroe: Don’t tempt me. I’ve got leftovers and only work to consider.
There was a pause. Monroe stared at the screen, her heart giving a small, traitorous flutter.
Chloé: That’s dangerously appealing. I have a very weak spot for cold roast potatoes and excellent company.
Monroe: I make a mean breakfast too.
Chloé: Now that’s flirting.
Monroe: Maybe just a little. Too much?
She let the phone rest in her lap, head tilting back into the cushions, the faintest blush rising in her cheeks. The cottage wasn’t so quiet anymore—not when her mind was already replaying the kiss at the door, the scent of Chloé’s perfume still hanging faintly in the air like a promise.
Chloé: Never. Let’s organise another date soon. Preferably one that ends the same way. Or better.
Monroe’s face lit up. She reread the message, then tucked the phone beside her.
She’d spent so long bracing for disappointment, tiptoeing around possibilities like it might break beneath her. But this—this felt easy. Not perfect, not certain…but possible.
And maybe romance wasn’t so scary anymore.