Ready or Not (The Love Game Book 4) by Elizabeth Hayley (i wanna iguana read aloud txt) 📗

what I knew was the right thing. Only an asshole would discount that. Not that I could say all that.

“You’re not a dudebro.”

“You thought I was. At first at least.”

I shook my head, which was difficult since it was still pillowed on my arms. “Never.”

He gave me a small smile, and I almost got lost in it.

Then he ruined it by saying, “Call him, Taylor.”

I jerked to a stand. “What? Now?”

“No time like the present,” he said as he stood and made his way out of the kitchen.

I followed like an ornery duckling. “I’ll do it when you leave. What kind of host would I be if I abandoned you while I took a call?”

He scooped my phone off the coffee table and held it out to me. “I can leave.”

“No!” I yelled with a little more alarm than I would’ve conveyed if I could’ve had a do-over. “I mean, no,” I repeated at a more acceptable volume. “I don’t want you to go.”

He wiggled the phone that was still in his hand, causing me to take it from him with the same degree of enthusiasm one might have if they’d been handed a rattlesnake. Then he plopped down on the couch, grabbed the remote, and settled back as he turned on the TV. By all accounts, he was making himself at home.

“Then I’ll wait,” he said as he rested one ankle across the opposite knee.

“At least one of us is comfortable,” I muttered.

He dropped his leg and leaned forward. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. But I’m also worried that if I let you put it off, you won’t call him. And I can’t… It’s your safety we’re talking about here. I can’t take that chance.”

I stared at him for a second before breaking. “Ugh, fine. God, I wished I’d known you were some kind of guilt-trip expert.”

“If there was one thing my mom taught me, it was how to be an exemplary manipulator.” He kicked back again, a tad smug with having gotten his way.

“I’ll have to thank her with a postcard laced with anthrax,” I said drolly.

“With as much gin as she’s consumed in her lifetime, bacteria doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Guess I’ll have to get more creative, then.”

“Guess so.” He watched me earnestly for a minute before waving me toward the bedroom. “Hurry up. I’m hungry.”

“We can always eat first—”

“Taylor,” he warned.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.”

I approached my bedroom as a nun might approach the second circle of hell. Once inside, I wasted some time observing the room as if I’d never been in it before. Then I plopped down on my bed and stared at my phone for an emo-filled moment before acknowledging that I was going to make the call—if for no other reason than I didn’t want to disappoint Ransom—and that putting it off was only making my anxiety higher.

Taking a deep breath, I found my dad’s contact info and tapped Call.

Part of me worried he wouldn’t answer. That I’d pissed him off enough that he’d send me straight to voicemail. In the split second between connecting the call and the first ring, I’d almost convinced myself of this scenario, so when he picked up after the second ring, I fumbled the phone in surprise and nearly dropped it.

“Taylor?”

“Dad. Hi. How are you?” Lame. I rolled my eyes at myself at how formal I sounded.

“Oh, I’m okay. Better now that I’ve heard from you.”

“Phone works both ways,” I said before I could censor it. Being acrimonious wasn’t the way to kick this off, but my words were the truth.

“Yes, well, I thought you needed a…cooling-off period.”

He thinks I’ve come to my senses. That I’m calling to apologize. And maybe, in a way, I was, but not how he thought, and my feathers ruffled at the implication that I was the only one in the wrong.

Ransom was right. I should’ve been more honest about my reasons for leaving school, but my dad wasn’t free from blame. He had been an epic twat the night I tried to talk to him, and I couldn’t let it go. Not completely.

“I think we both did,” I said even though I actually wanted to tell him I’d like him to cool down in the Arctic Ocean with an anchor strapped to his ankle.

He hesitated. “Yes, maybe you’re right.”

It was a small concession, but one I clung to like a life preserver. I didn’t want to fight with him, but I didn’t want to do all the fence-mending either.

“I have something I need to tell you,” I said. “It’s what I was trying to tell you that night before everything went to hell. And I need you to just listen to me so I can get all of this out.”

I was a little curious about what was running through his mind: torrid love affair that led to an unwanted pregnancy, drug-muling for a cartel, an accidental murder of a hitchhiker on a stormy night. But I didn’t ask.

Instead, I told him the story of Brad. And he honored my wishes to not interrupt until I got to the part about him showing up and confronting me at various places around campus last spring.

Then, the man I always knew him to be, erupted in a fit of parental rage.

“What’s this asshole’s last name? I’m calling the school. He’ll be expelled before the night’s over. We’ll have you safely back in classes by the end of the week. We can get a restraining order for good measure.”

I blinked back tears. This was the exact reaction I was counting on when I went home to dinner that night almost two months ago. My protector, my dad, ready to draw his sword and fight for me.

But that wasn’t what I got, and something about getting it now seemed hollow. I had no doubts my dad was already looking up the number for the dean. He could and would fix it for me, which was exactly what I’d wanted.

It just wasn’t what I wanted anymore.