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

It was about discipline.

Everyone in this world had to do things they disliked. But likes and dislikes didn’t compare to loyalty, sacrifice, love... And though whether or not she jogged every morning had nothing to do with those ideals, the exercise served as a reminder of what happened when a person lost control. When they allowed their selfish wants to supersede everything else that mattered.

Her reminder.

Her penance.

Didn’t matter. She would continue to do it. Even if running never became easier. Never ceased to make her feel like she wanted to collapse and call on the Lord to end her suffering.

Moments later, as she finished her stretching, the door behind her opened. Her father stepped out, and once again that familiar and so complicated flood of emotion poured through her as it did whenever she was in Douglas Sinclair’s presence.

Awe. Reverence. Guilt. Shame. Anger. Resentment.

Love.

She was a murky, tangled hodgepodge of feelings when it came to her father.

“Good morning, Dad,” she greeted, straightening from a deep lunge.

“Reagan.” He peered down at her, his customary Stetson not hiding the frown wrinkling his brow. “Out running again, I see.” He tsked, shaking his head. “We have a perfectly good gym downstairs with top-of-the-line equipment, and yet you insist on gallivanting around the neighborhood.”

Gallivanting. If his obvious disapproval didn’t grate on her nerves like a cheese grinder, she would’ve snorted at the old-fashioned word. But that was her father. Old-fashioned. Traditional. Conservative. All nice words to say he liked things done a certain way. Including not having his daughter jog around their posh neighborhood in athletic leggings and a sports tank top. Modest women didn’t show their bodies in that fashion.

Unfortunately for him, she couldn’t run in a high-waisted gown with a starched collar.

Forcing a smile to her lips, she said, “I’m hardly parading around, Dad. I’m exercising.” Before he could respond to that, she pressed on. “Headed into the office?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

She could set her watch by him. Breakfast at 7:00 a.m. Leave for the law office at 7:45. To Douglas Sinclair, integrity was a religion. And that included being accountable to his time and his clients.

“Yes.” He glanced down at his watch. “I left a message with your mother, but now that I’m seeing you, please don’t forget that we have dinner plans tonight. The Grangers are coming over, and you need to be here. On time,” he emphasized. More like commanded. “I understand your committee work is important, but not more so than honoring your commitments. I expect you to be here and dressed at six sharp.”

He doesn’t mean to be condescending. Or controlling. Or patronizing. He loves you.

Silently, she ran the refrain through her head. Over and over until the words melded together. He didn’t know about her work at the girls’ home in Colonial County. It wasn’t his fault he saw her through the lens of another era—outdated traditions, unobtainable expectations...

A disappointed father.

“Devon is attending with his parents. So you need to be at your best tonight,” he continued. “You seemed to show interest in him at James Harris’s get-together last week. You two talked quite a bit at dinner. With his family, his position in his father’s real estate development company and business connections, he would make an ideal husband.”

Jesus. This again. Reagan just managed not to pinch the bridge of her nose and utter profanity that would have her father gasping.

He just didn’t stop. Didn’t give her a chance to breathe. To make a single decision for herself.

Since she’d turned twenty-six five months ago, he’d been on this relentless campaign to see her married. Just as her brother had. As her sister had only a year ago.

It was all so ridiculous. So damn antiquated. And stifling. She could find her own goddamn husband, if she wanted one.

Which she didn’t.

She loved her parents; they’d always provided a more-than-comfortable home, the best schools, a good, solid family life. But her father was definitely the head of the household, and Henrietta Sinclair, though the mediator and often the voice of reason, very rarely went against him. While the relationship might work well for them, Reagan couldn’t imagine allowing a man to have that much control over her.

Besides, she’d done that once. Let a man consume her world—be her world. And that had ended in a spectacularly disastrous display.

No, she didn’t want a husband who’d give her a home and his shadow to live in.

“Dad, I appreciate your concern, but I wish you and Mom would stop...with the matchmaking attempts. I’ve told both of you that marriage isn’t a priority for me right now.” If ever. “I’ll show up for dinner tonight, but don’t expect a love match. While Devon Granger may be nice and husband material, he’s not my husband material.”

Poor Devon. His most interesting quality had been providing a distraction from Tracy Drake, seated on her other side. And since the notorious gossip had spotted Ezekiel Holloway following Reagan and her father back into the house within moments, she’d been chock-full of questions and assumptions. The woman had missed her calling as a CIA agent.