Trust Fund Fiance - Naima Simone Page 0,5
and more emotional baggage than the airplanes WinJet manufactured—wasn’t a good bet.
Not a good bet at all.
Two
Reagan jogged up the four shallow stone steps to her family’s Pine Valley mansion. Once she reached the portico that stretched from one end of the front of the house to the other, she stopped, her chest rising and falling on deep, heavy breaths. Turning, she flattened a palm against one of the columns and, reaching for her foot, pulled it toward her butt in a stretch.
God, she detested running. Not even the beautiful scenery of the well-manicured streets and gorgeous multimillion-dollar homes of their upscale, gated community could distract her from the burn in her thighs, the hitch in her chest or the numbing boredom of it. But regardless, she exited her house every morning at 7:00 a.m. to jog past the mansions where Royal high society slept, the clubhouse larger than most people’s homes, the Olympic-size pool that called her to take a refreshing dip, and the eighteen-hole golf course. The chore wasn’t about pleasure or even staying healthy or retaining a particular dress size.
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