Page 37 of Caught A Vibe

Feeling halfway human, I put on a mask and carry the tray into the kitchen myself, anxious to see the world outside my bedroom. The shower running tells me I’ll have the space to myself. The main room of my one-bedroom apartment has an open concept kitchen and living space, so limiting contact is hard. But I really need to get out of my bedroom now that I’m physically able.

Dash has been so good to me while I’ve been sick. I want to start pulling my weight again. My legs feel fine and sturdy beneath me as I leave my confinement, but the level of chaos in my normally well-organized and spotless space threatens my newfound balance.

Plates and coffee mugs sit stacked up in the sink, food caked on the porcelain. The stovetop is covered with seemingly every pan I own, all used and stacked with abandon. I look for a place to set down the tray and settle on the floor, since it’s the only clear space I can find. The counter holds a loaf of bread, a bag of apples, and jars of peanut butter and jelly.

I survey the living room in a daze, taking in the details and piecing together the story. This poor man! He’s been waiting on me hand and foot, living on my couch, and trying to hold down a job remotely. He literally packed up his life for me and parked it on my couch when I needed him. This level of chaos would normally drive me insane, but all I can see is the evidence of a life upended on my behalf.

Luckily, this is all just temporary. Dash has done so much for me. The least I can do is not harp on his housekeeping skills. The only roommate I’ve ever been able to tolerate was Nicola in college, who is just as neat and driven as I am. Even that had only lasted as long as our ill-fated relationship.

But Dash isn’t my roommate or my lover at this point. Just a friend who cared enough to help. Soon, I’ll be back to full strength, and he can find his own place down here in LA. We’ll get back to normal, and then we’ll see where things go.

Before I’ve roused from my shock, the bathroom door opens and he comes out, wearing only a towel, his chest still wet from his dripping hair. All worries about the state of my apartment disappear as I remember the glory of his chest under my hands.

For the first time in weeks a hint of lust percolates and all I can think isthank God. If Covid had taken this too, I’d have been pissed. As it is, I’m frustrated I can’t touch him until I’m completely sure I’m not contagious. His hand flexes and tendons dance as he grips his towel more firmly, and I wonder if he feels the same. I know we agreed to take things slow, but this feeling in my gut (and lower) just confirms I’d definitely like to take things somewhere.

“Penny! What are you doing up?” he asks.

My eyes jerk from his abs to his face. “You were in the shower, and I just wanted to bring my dishes to the sink.”

“Here, let me take those.” Still gripping the towel, he bends to pick up the tray and I hold my breath as the towel stretches, molding to his thighs. “I was going to clean up a bit before you came out. Thought I had another day or two.” He starts collecting coffee mugs and plates one-handed and piling them in the sink. All I can think of is how strong and nimble that hand can be.

“Dash, stop. It’s okay. You’ve been taking care of me and working full-time during a freaking pandemic. Go get dressed. Please.”

He glances down as if just realizing he’s still half naked. “Oh, right. Um.” He picks up a T-shirt and clutches it in front of him, looking at me expectantly.

Because I am standing in his bedroom.

“Right. Okay, I’m going to go lie back down.”

As much as I hate it, I hustle back into my bedroom so he can have some privacy. His strong hand follows me, tucked securely in my horny memory. So what if I imagine it when I touch myself under the covers? It takes my mind off the mess in my apartment, and gives me a shot at keeping my hands to myself long enough for him to find a place and for us to see if this has a shot at being a real relationship.

Chapter10

Penny

Idrop my head on the kitchen table that is serving as the de facto command center for my startup. This is too hard. The office is still closed; my shipments have been dropped off at the warehouse but there is no one there to unpack them or ship them out to customers. Investors are spooked, and I’m trying to solve problem after problem with a Covid-fogged brain and video calls from my kitchen. I’ve cleared the Covid infection. So why don’t I feel better? Why can’t I fix this?

The guttural yell of frustration explodes from my throat, and it feels great to scream into the void. When Dash’s hands land on my shoulders, I sit up and yelp. I forgot for a moment that there is another human in my space.

Dash is so quiet when he writes, curled up on the couch with his laptop, that it’s easy to forget he’s here. Still here. His apartment hunt has stalled, and I haven’t pushed. There is really nowhere for him to go, and to be honest, I don’t want to be alone right now. But we aren’t really together either…

Everything is stuck, and it’s breaking my will to keep hustling.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, puttering at the counter behind me.

“Everything.”

“Want to talk through the specific everything that made you scream bloody murder?”

“No, I want my brain back! I want to be able to fix things like I usually do. I need to talk it out with my teams and find the creative, flexible solutions I know are hiding out there. I want things to go back to normal.”

“Normal is my nemesis. It’s completely overrated. Come talk to the chaos junkie in your life, and we’ll see what we can come up with. What is your biggest worry right now?” Dash slips into the kitchen chair next to mine and hands me a fresh coffee with cream and two sugars, just how I like it. I can feel the lovely heat and support he radiates like a sunbeam.

I lean my head on his shoulder and let my stress spew. “I can’t get these preorder units shipped out. We had all that fantastic buzz which turned into sales, but if I can’t deliver them, I’ll lose all that momentum. I promised my customers that they would have their toys on time, and nothing is functioning at full speed, least of all my brain. I am failing, and I hate it.”

“And how many preorders are there?”

“Thousands.” I sip the coffee and hope it jolts something loose.

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