Ruined (Barnes Brothers #4)(3)

“Why shouldn’t I be?” he half snapped, and then he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

It wasn’t like she wasn’t entitled to feel how she felt.

Abruptly, he found himself remembering another day—a different day—not when he’d given her that chaste kiss that had made his blood burn and his cock pulse. It had just been the two of them. They’d decided to go out for lunch when they unexpectedly had a long break—there’d been a minor emergency and the director had told them all to just take an early lunch and meet back at two. They’d gone out instead of eating the same catered lunch they’d been having for the past few weeks.

They’d been walking down the street and somebody had recognized him despite his attempt to avoid it. He hadn’t minded and he’d gone to catch Marin’s hand, intending to include her in it, but she’d pulled away, ducking into a nearby store while he smiled and laughed and signed autographs.

He met her gaze and saw that she knew exactly what he’d been thinking about.

“It’s okay to enjoy your time in the sun, Seb,” she said softly. “I know I did. But . . . after a while, it gets awful cold in that spotlight. Awful boring and empty. I need something more.”

“Marin . . .” He swallowed, and then forced a laugh. “Look, I’m not asking you to marry me or anything. I just thought we could have fun together. Hang out. I’m not looking for anything more.”

“No.” She pushed back from the table, picking up the script and her bag. She hefted the wide pink strap over her shoulder before she spoke. Her eyes were sad as she met his. “I am.”

***

It’s okay to enjoy your time in the sun.

Brooding, he stared into his martini. Sebastien had been convinced he’d feel better once he hit his favorite restaurant, but so far, he’d been wrong.

The ma?tre d’ normally struck him as friendly, but tonight, the service had seemed more like . . . gushing.

The dim light and the music, all of it had seemed too contrived.

The martini he’d ordered was bland, and another person came by his table to talk about how they needed to get together and soon, he just might gouge his eyeballs out if another person came by.

“Sebastien?”

He bit back a snarl, only to swallow it completely when he looked up to see Monica Dupré standing before him.

Monica.

Monica Dupré. Save for the women in his family, there had been only two women who had ever really made an impact on his life. One had just shot him down flat earlier, and he was trying to tell himself it was no big deal.

The other was now standing in front of him.

The day before he’d planned to ask her to marry him, Monica had ended their relationship and told him she had fallen in love with another man. For a little while, he’d thought he was heartbroken, but it wasn’t long before he realized that if he was really heartbroken, then he was as shallow as his brothers always said he was—even when he was brooding over being dumped by Monica, even when the ring he’d bought was sitting on the nightstand, he still dreamed about Marin.

He’d always dreamed about Marin. Some thought of her or what she might think had an effect on his decisions and almost everything he did.

Yeah, well, you’ll just have to get over it, you miserable son of a bitch. As far as she’s concerned, you’ve got about as much depth as a rain puddle—here in drought-ridden LA.

Clearing his throat, he managed to say Monica’s name and offer a hello as he rose to his feet. Sitting wasn’t an option for a Barnes man. Even though she wasn’t there, Sebastien was still convinced that if he didn’t stand when there was a lady around, his mother would hear about it, and he’d never hear the end of it.

Monica held out a hand and he took it, lifted it to his lips. She blushed, the faint pink color rising to her cheeks, turning them almost the same color as the dusky, strapless sheath she wore. It was a pale color, somewhere between peach and orange, and it made him think of the color of the clouds as the sun was sinking below the horizon.

Not many redheads could wear that color, but Monica didn’t just wear it.

She owned it.

The dress covered her from the swells of her breasts down to just below the curve of her ass, and he thought one tug would have her bare.

And then he found himself thinking about Marin, in her simple tank top and her jeans, curled up in her chair as she went over her lines.

Don’t take this personally . . .

Dragging his thoughts away from Marin—the woman who’d told him no today—he focused on the woman who’d told him no years ago. “Would you like to sit down?”

He gestured toward the empty seat.

She did sit, but in the seat next to his, not the one across from him.

And the flush on her cheeks deepened.

“So, how’ve you been?” he asked softly as he sat back down. Although the martini hadn’t really been hitting the spot, he reached for it again. He needed something to wet his throat.

She was still so beautiful, her fiery red hair cut to chin length and layered in tousled waves. Her eyes were burnished gold and when she glanced at him, he could see the nerves and shyness there. She’d always seemed so out of place: both ingenue and siren. It was why he’d loved her.

It was probably why she’d caught the eye of Hanson Smith, too. The producer had been nearly fifty and in a position to do amazing things for her career—and he had. Monica had recently won an Academy Award and she was all of twenty-four years old.