Trust Fund Fiancé (Texas Cattleman's Club: Rags to Riches 4)

“Well, thank God that’s out of the way. Goodness, Douglas, that was so dramatic,” Henrietta tsked, moving forward to envelop Reagan in her arms. The familiar scent of Yves Saint Laurent Black Opium embraced her as well, and for a moment, Reagan closed her eyes and breathed in the hints of vanilla, jasmine and orange blossom. Pulling back, Henrietta smiled at Reagan. “Congratulations, honey.”

“Thanks, Mom,” she murmured, guilt a hard kernel lodged behind her breastbone.

“Have you two thought about a date yet?” her mother asked, and Reagan swore she could glimpse the swirl of wedding dresses, flowers

and invitations floating above her head. “What about next spring? The clubhouse is usually reserved months in advance, but your father has donated enough money to this community that they would definitely fit you in. And we should probably send invitations out now...”

“Mom.” Reagan gently interrupted her mother’s full steam ahead plans with a glance at Ezekiel. “We were actually thinking of just a small affair in a couple of weeks.”

“What?” Henrietta gasped, and her horrified expression might have been comical under different circumstances. “No, no, that just won’t do. What would everyone say? Your sister had a big wedding, and so did your brother. So many people will want to attend, and they need advance notice. I won’t have my daughter involved in some shotgun wedding as if she’s—” Her voice snapped off like a broken twig, her eyes widening as suspicion and shock darkened them. “Reagan, are you... You can’t be...”

“No,” Reagan breathed. “No, Mom, I’m not pregnant.”

And as relief lightened Henrietta’s eyes, anger washed through Reagan. Despair swept under it like an undertow. When would she stop being the sum of her mistakes with her parents?

“Well, then, what’s the rush?” her father asked, his head tilting to the side, studying her. There was a shrewdness there that she refused to fidget under as if he’d just caught her sneaking in after curfew.

“We want to begin our lives together,” she replied. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“A wedding in two weeks is...unseemly,” her mother complained, shaking her head, her mouth pursed in a distasteful moue. “Six months. That’s not too much time to ask. It’s still short notice, but we can plan a beautiful winter wedding befitting my oldest daughter and have it right here on the estate. It’ll be perfect.” She clapped in delight.

God, this wasn’t going how she’d expected at all. If it were up to Reagan, she would hightail it to the Royal courthouse, sign the marriage license and have a bored judge legally tie them together. It seemed more fitting to this situation. Definitely more honest.

Weddings with arches made of roses and the finest crystal and favors in the shapes of rings and a towering cake—those were for couples who were truly in love. Who looked forward to a life together filled with devotion, family and golden years together.

Weddings weren’t for people who had based their temporary union on desperation, pity and money. Who looked forward to a year from now when they could be free of obligation and each other.

Besides, this wasn’t fair to Ezekiel. He hadn’t signed up for all of this. Hell, she wasn’t even his wife yet, and her parents were acting like interfering in-laws. Waiting six months to marry would only extend their agreed-upon timeline. He’d only counted on auctioning away a year of his life, not a year and a half, possibly two.

She shook her head. No, she wouldn’t do this to him. It was one thing to allow her parents to pressure her, but another to subject Ezekiel to it.

But before she could tell them that the modest, small ceremony was their final decision, Ezekiel released her hand and looped an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to her temple. Her belly clenched. Hard. Just a simple touch of his lips and desire curled inside her, knotting into something needy, achy. Stunned by her body’s reaction, she froze, a deer with its hoof suspended over the steel teeth of a trap.

“I don’t want to rob Reagan of having this experience with you, so if it’s okay with her, we can wait six months,” Ezekiel said. “I don’t want her to look back years from now and regret anything. Her wedding day should be special.”

How many times could a woman be struck speechless in the matter of minutes? Countless, it seemed.

“Zeke,” she finally murmured, tilting her head back. “You don’t have to do that...”

“It’s no trouble,” he replied softly. “Not for you.”

She heard his gentle assertion, but she read the truth in his eyes. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t cause—what had been his word?—trouble. Go along to get along. That had been her mantra since she was sixteen. While before it had worked for her, now? Now it felt...wrong.

“Stop worrying, sweetheart. It’s fine. I’m fine.” The low, barely-there whisper reached her ears, and with a jolt, she opened her eyes, only then realizing that she’d closed them.

She searched his face, seeking out any signs of his frustration, his disappointment, his pity. God, which would be more like a dagger sliding into her chest? Each would hurt for different reasons. No matter how many times she glimpsed them in her family’s eyes, they still pierced her.

But only understanding gleamed in his gaze. Understanding and a resolve that both confused and assured her.

For now, she’d concentrate on the assurance. Because if she permitted herself to become any more curious about Ezekiel Holloway—or worse, give in to the urge to figure him out—she might never be able to back away from that crumbling, precarious ledge.

“Okay,” she whispered back.

“Wonderful,” her mother crowed with another delighted clap of her hands. “We’ll start planning right away. And we’ll start with a date. How about...”

Her mother continued chatting as they all headed toward the formal dining room for dinner, but Reagan only listened with half an ear.

Most of her focus centered on the palm settled at the base of her spine and currently burning a hole through her dress.