54. Chapter 54
fifty-four
C hloé tapped away at her keyboard, completely absorbed in the hours that were slipping by unnoticed.
She’d been in meetings all morning and was cautiously optimistic there was a small investor on the horizon; someone who seemed genuinely interested and willing to put a few thousand euros into La Fée du Livre .
It wasn’t much, but it would help keep things ticking over; one small victory in a day of many tasks.
Now, she was knee-deep in contract drafts for the new authors they’d recently signed—fresh voices, exciting talent, and for once, hope didn’t feel foolish.
Marketing was running full throttle, pulling together social media campaigns, cover reveals, and newsletter teases in preparation for the books to go live.
The website had just launched its redesign: A sleek, modern overhaul that, in hindsight, she admitted was long overdue. But the timing had worked out. Everything was beginning to align: a new look, a fresh direction, and the chance to actually survive.
She briefly rubbed her temples, glancing at the clock. Nearly four.
Her heart gave a small flutter.
Monroe would be arriving soon.
For a moment, Chloé let her thoughts drift back to that chance encounter at the airport—the moment she’d dared to speak to the beautiful English woman who looked so lost, so sad.
She’d never imagined it would become anything more than a fleeting exchange with a stranger—certainly not a romance. Certainly not this —a love that had slipped past her defences and was now about to move into her life full-time.
Every spare minute outside the office these past few days had been spent preparing her home for Monroe. She wanted everything to feel easy, comfortable, lived-in, like Monroe already belonged there.
Their video calls had helped. Chloé had a fairly good idea of what Monroe was bringing with her: mostly clothes and essentials, a few books, some framed photos, important paperwork. The rest, she’d said, would come later, if this worked.
Chloé had cleared drawers and shifted half her wardrobe into the spare room. She’d emptied shelves in the lounge for Monroe’s books and her bits and pieces. The farmhouse felt different already—lighter—like it was holding its breath in anticipation, too.
All that remained was to finish up her work for the day, stop at the bakery for fresh bread and cheese, open a bottle of wine, and be ready— really ready —for Monroe’s arrival.
Chloé closed her laptop with a heavy sigh, the soft click sounding louder than it should in the stillness of her office. Her eyes drifted towards the wall clock.
Almost six.
“ Merde .”
She was meant to have left an hour ago.
Grabbing her bag and jacket, she shoved a few loose papers into a drawer, flicked off the desk lamp, and hurried out, her heels tapping sharply against the floor. Monroe would be close by now—maybe even nearly here.
And Chloé was running late.