The Dysfunctional Test (17 page)

“Of course I get mad.”

Uh, no. Not really. “Not like this. You raised your voice a second ago.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “And you’re not done. Hold on.” He walked to the bed, grabbed a pillow, and stepped inside the closet with her. He shut the door and handed her the pillow. “Scream into that.”

“Excuse me?”

He smiled. Most people just said
what
. Camryn, even confused or pissed off, said
excuse me
. “If you start screaming without the pillow against your face, the family will think I’m murdering you.”

“I’m not going to scream at all.”

His smile widened. “It’s on the list, Camryn. You wished on a star, did something that scared you, danced in the rain, lost control, and laughed until it hurt. Now, get mad.”

She ground her teeth and spoke through them. “Why does everyone find it necessary to change me? I’ve survived this long without help. I’ve lived with not being funny, or beautiful, or…”

“More on that later,” he said, cutting her off. And he
would
revisit those lies later. But for now, she was losing her anger. “Scream, Cam.”

Ah, it was back. “No.”

“Do it, wimp.”

Her nostrils flared. “No.”

He backed her up against the wall and put the pillow to her face. “Scream, Cam.”

Without further hesitation, she clenched the pillow, pressed it against her face and screamed into it. Loud, long and strong enough to make her tremble. When finished, she lowered the pillow and stared at it. Her face was an adorable shade of Chuck Berry red.

“Need to do it again?”

As an answer, she handed the pillow back.

“Feel better?”

She looked at him, one corner of her mouth curved before she nodded. “I don’t suppose you’ll forget those things I said.”

Not a chance in hell. That was on the list too. To spill her guts. “No, but that’s a talk for another night.”

He draped an arm over her shoulders and squeezed. She winced and jerked back.

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? I thought you were better.”

“It’s not from the fall. It’s from my massage.”

“Huh?” His gaze raked over her. “Massages aren’t supposed to hurt.”

She walked around him and opened the door. She plopped on the bed, rolling her shoulders. “Tell that to Brunhilda the Tormentor.”

He wasn’t sure if he should laugh or not. “Come again?”

“Never mind.”

He kicked the closet door shut and went to sit next to her on the bed. Carefully, he lifted a finger and touched her shoulder. She cringed. “Oh, hell no. Are you that sore?”

As an answer, she stared straight ahead.

He looked in the direction of the bathroom, then over at her again. Rising, he grabbed her robe and a bottle of lotion from the bath. He was going to regret this. Until the day he died. Keeping his hands—and mouth—off of her had been a demanding and intolerable task the past few days. Even telling himself that she was Camryn Covic no longer worked.

“Put your robe on,” he said. “I’ll rub the kinks out.”

She whipped him one of her attractive pissed off looks. “No. I have bruises on top of bruises.”

“And I’ll help.”

“No.”

“Camryn, put the robe on.”

“I’m not getting…naked in front of you.”

Oh, now that brought all sorts of naughty, pleasurable things to mind. He closed his eyes. “You don’t have to get naked. Leave your shorts on, take your shirt off, and put the robe on backward.”

When he opened his eyes, she looked like she was considering it.

“I’ll wait in the bathroom,” he said, rising. He shut the bathroom door and grabbed her two Tylenol. After waiting a few minutes, he reopened the door. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

He stood next to the bed, holding the Tylenol. She took them and swallowed them. Before he could change his mind, he sat behind her and squeezed some lotion into his hand.

The second his hand touched her bare shoulder, she tensed. So did he. “Relax,” he said, for both their benefits.

As he moved his hands over her shoulders, down her back, he found the trouble spots and worked them out. She had a small gathering of freckles just below her hairline on her neck. His gaze trained on them as he continued the massage. Her skin was so pale, so smooth. His hands were calloused from working in construction, his skin tanned from the sun.

How different they were, in every sense of the word. Yet touching her turned him on, made him want to lay her out flat and release her tension in other ways. If her lovemaking was anything like her kiss, he may never leave this bed.

If he were to kiss her neck, right there over those freckles, would she lay her head back and moan? If he closed his mouth over her ear, would she call his name? If his hands slid around her side, to her breasts, how well would they fit in his palm? There was something very different about how she turned him on compared to other women. Something he couldn’t control himself to explore.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He blinked, realizing his hands had stopped moving. “Nothing. I’m tired. Do you feel better?”

“Yes,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Thank you.”

He cleared his throat. “Go ahead and change.”

She got up and disappeared into the bathroom. Sucking in a breath, he looked down at his lap and the painful erection. He hauled the sheet over his lap and rolled on his side.

No way in hell was he going to make it through the week.

After beaning Nana with a baseball, and Camryn’s trip to the hospital, the family decided it was best to do some sightseeing around town and then go for lunch. Camryn couldn’t hurt anyone by doing that.

As if either instance were her fault.

They went into several tourist shops, an Indian Heritage museum, and walked through an area of the Indian Peaks Wilderness, where Camryn learned what Mile High Gliding was. Apparently, people—being of sound mind—attached themselves to a cable wire and threw themselves off a perfectly good mountain. She was glad she’d nailed Nana with a baseball instead. Nana probably wouldn’t agree, but her bump was disappearing and there had been minimal bruising.

No harm, no foul. Though, technically, she guessed it was foul.

After wearing themselves out, they sat down at a table in a bar and grill and ordered drinks. The place was straight out of a Paul Bunyan story. Complete with moose and deer heads above the bar. Dark wood planked the walls, making the place feel like a log cabin in the middle of a mountain.

Camryn glanced at the menu, wincing at the caribou steaks as the special. Her cell phone chimed, finally in an area of service. She hadn’t had so much as one phone call since arriving in Colorado. She reached in her purse to check it. One voice mail and one text. She read the text first.

I miss you
.

She gasped. Everyone at the table eyed her. She smoothed her features into a blank face. Maxwell missed her? Why? She thought she was a cold fish with no color coordination.

“Let’s run to the bathroom,” Heather said, standing.

Blindly, Camryn stood, still looking down at Maxwell’s words on the way to the rest room.

“Okay, spill,” Heather said.

Camryn clicked off the message and put the phone away. “I was told I couldn’t maim anyone today. I’m assuming this means clothes too, so no spilling.”

Heather’s jaw dropped. “Was that a joke?”

Not really. “Maxwell sent me a text saying he misses me.”

Heather turned the faucet on to wash her hands. “What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I have a voicemail too. Hold on.” Camryn pulled her cell out again and punched in the numbers to check her messages.

Hello, Miss Covic. This is Erin Bronson from Greyshaw Industries. We received your resume and would like to set up an interview. If you could please call us back as soon as you can, we’ll get everything going. Thank you
.

“Job interview,” she relayed to Heather. “Thank God. That’s the first hit I’ve had on my resume since sending it out last week. I was getting worried.”

“That’s great. What about Maxwell?” Heather reached for a towel to dry her hands. The towel dispenser had a stuffed squirrel mounted above it. Apparently Colorado loved their taxidermy.

“I don’t know. You speak man language. What does it mean when your boyfriend sleeps with Barbie behind your back, dumps you for her, insults you on the way out, then texts to say he misses you? Is there a term for that?”

“Assholitis?” Heather threw her paper towel away. “Maybe he sent the text to you by mistake, or regrets the breakup.”

The first seemed more logical.

“What are you going to tell Troy?”

Camryn looked at her phone again. “Nothing. It’s not like we’re a real couple.”

“You should tell him.”

Without answering her, she washed and dried her hands.

“Cam, he deserves to know.”

“Heather, he won’t care. This is not a real relationship. My personal life is none of his business.” She held the door open for her sister.

“I don’t know, Cam. I think he’ll be upset if you don’t say something and he finds out.”

Troy had never cared who she dated before now, he wasn’t going to start. They left the bathroom and returned to the table.

After she sat down, Troy leaned over. “Everything okay?”

She nodded. “Just got a hit on my resume.”

“Ow,” her dad bellowed from next to her, jumping a foot off his seat. He bent over, rubbing his shin.

“Sorry, Dad,” Heather said, eyeing Camryn. “My foot slipped.”

Troy eyed the two of them, then apparently decided to let it go. “I ordered for you.”

Great. She hoped it wasn’t the special.

Troy turned to Bernice. “May Cam and I borrow your car tonight?”

“Oh sure,” she said, waving her hand. “Use the GPS so you don’t get lost.”

Camryn looked at Troy, not liking the grin on his face. “Why do we need the car? Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Aw,” Mom gushed. “That’s so sweet.”

Bull. Her eyes narrowed. There was no sweetness involved here. Troy was up to something on his list. Something the opposite of sweet. Like…no good.

Chapter Twelve

Life Lessons According to Camryn:

What happens in Vegas never happens to me.

Troy drove the forest-lined, two lane road, paying extra attention on the sharp curves to not hit a deer, or bear, or whatever else might be out this time of night. Did they have moose in Colorado? At one point, about three miles back, there was a drop-off straight down an embankment. There wasn’t even a guardrail.

He didn’t need to glance at Cam to know she was stewing in the passenger seat. According to the GPS, the turn he was looking for was a half mile up the road.

“Where are we going?”

He grinned, keeping his eyes ahead. “To tell you would defeat the purpose.”

“And what is the purpose?”

Clever girl. “We’re doing something spontaneous.”

“I don’t…”

“Do spontaneous,” he answered. “I know. That’s the purpose.”

“This is hardly spontaneous, Troy. You know where we’re going and why.”

“But
you
don’t.”

He almost missed the turn quipping with her. Slowing, he turned left and drove through the wooded park. If Justin’s directions were right, they were almost there. After a few minutes of driving, the road ended and opened into an unlit parking lot.

“Here we are,” he said, cutting the engine. “Hop out.”

She glared out the windshield. “What? You brought me to Camp Crystal Lake? Is a serial killer in a hockey mask going to slaughter us now?
That
would be spontaneous.”

He sighed. “You take the fun out of everything.” She turned her head to look out the side window. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did. And you’re right, but I never claimed to be fun.”

She
was
fun, she just forgot she was. “Officially, Jason’s mother was the killer in the original
Friday the 13th
. She didn’t wear a mask.” She whipped him an un-amused glare. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Go where?”

He exited the car and crossed his arms, waiting on her. After several moments, she hesitantly got out. Taking her hand, he led her across the parking lot and over a short hiking trail, until a clearing emerged. A small, natural wading pool and waterfall lay before them, steam billowing out into the chilly night.

“Indian Head Hot Springs,” he said.

He watched her eye the water, the trees surrounding them, and then she looked at him with raised brows. He grinned, and her eyes bulged.

“Get in,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re so predictable. You should change up your answers once in a while.”