Page 1 of Sticky Situationship

Libby | Four Months Ago

Ineed a dozenhomemade chocolate cupcakes about as much as I need a man in my life in right. In other words, not at all. And I certainly shouldn’t be wasting precious study hours baking. But stress makes people irrational. And bypeople, I mean me, the girl running on a sleep deficiency so acute I forgot my own name during rounds this morning.

Being a fourth-year internal medicine resident, in one of the best programs in the country, at one of the top hospitals in New York City, working a gazillion hours a week while also studying for boards, will do that to you.

So rather than reviewing the structures, functions, and disorders of the cardiovascular system, here I am, scraping the mixing bowl and depositing the last of the thick chocolate batter into an already full cupcake liner before popping the pan in the oven and licking the spatula.

Because suddenly, I’ve had an overwhelming urge to take up baking as a hobby, even though I have no one, other than myfellow residents, to share the cupcakes with. I mean, it’s not as if I'm about to knock on the door of the new hottie who moved in next door just last week with awelcome to the buildingplate of homemade cupcakes at midnight on a random Tuesday.

Especially, because, if Iwasgoing to knock on his door at this hour, I’d have to change out of my stained sweatshirt, spritz on some dry shampoo and douse myself with at least half a bottle of body spray. And one of those things, let alone all three, is entirely too much effort at the moment.

Plus, I wouldn’t want to give the impression I’m interested, even if his shoulders are broad enough to block the sun better than a solar eclipse. It’s not as if I’ve been dreaming of the roguish smile he shot my way last week in the lobby when I was on my way to the hospital. Mainly, because I don’t dream at all these days. Nope, I flop into bed and pass out faster than you can say hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.

It’s better to bring the cupcakes to work tomorrow. If we time it right, the glucose spike may even help us when we spend our mandatory breaks quizzing each other on the difference between diastolic and systolic dysfunction of the heart muscle.

So with a sigh, I swipe another lick of the spatula before dropping the dirty mixing bowl into the sink and filling it with hot, soapy water. I can’t wash the bowl now or bother to clean up the kitchen. I’ve got studying to do. Boards are in six months, and there’s no way in hell I’ll face them unprepared. Not after I’ve spent nearly half my twenties working my ass of to get so close I can taste it.

I cross the five feet it takes to get from my kitchen to my family room/living room/dining room/bedroom combination and sink onto the twelve square inches of my bed not covered in textbooks, notebooks, flash cards and my laptop. I pick up a pen and try to focus, but my eyelids are drooping within seconds.

Surely, a quick cat nap will power me back up. I mean, I’ve got fifteen minutes until the cupcakes are done.

***

Ijerk awake witha jolt as a piercing screech fills my shoebox of a studio apartment. My eyes snap open, immediately stinging thanks to a room full of hazy smoke. Journal articles go flying when I scramble off the bed and lunge toward the kitchen.

I suck in a deep breath, choking on the acrid sooty air as my eyes fill with water. My throat burns as I skid to a stop in front of the oven and yank open the door. Big mistake.

A billowing cloud of smoke rolls out. I gag and snap back, grateful at least that there are no flames in sight. I slam the oven shut, and desperate coughs wrack my chest as tears stream down my face. I can’t find a dishtowel to save my life, so I whip off my sweatshirt and start fanning the smoke detector, its incessant alarm still sounding.

Just as I’m trying to remember where my fire extinguisher is and whether it will help since there’s not an actual fire, a forceful pounding on the door punctuates my frantic thoughts.

“New York Fire Department! Open up!”

How is that even possible? It’s been like sixty seconds.

My heart thunders as I hurry over and, with trembling fingers, unlatch the deadbolt, chain lock, swing bar, barrel bolt, and knob lock. As soon as I turn the handle, the door flings open, and my neighbor—shirtless, barefoot, and with an angular face no longer sporting that roguish smile—rushes in, all tanned skin and rippling muscle.

Two thoughts immediately surface in my brain.

One, he’s a firefighter?

And, two, doesn’t he realize it’s the middle of winter and snowing outside?

Dark eyes filled with concern rake over me as if he’s desperate to confirm I’m not, in fact, on fire. The intense look sears my skin more than the blazing heat from the oven. For once I’m grateful I haven’t done laundry in weeks. Because the only clean bra I could scrounge up this morning in the back corner of my top dresser drawer was a sports bra and it’s got more coverage than my favorite lace demi cups. But the fact I’m wearing only a bra must not be that noticeable because within seconds his attention shifts, scanning the rest of my messy-at-the-moment-but-I-swear-I’m-going-to-clean-up-on-my-next-day-off apartment.

The competent, assessing gaze leaves no question as to who’s in charge now. And—spoiler—it’s not me.

Without a word, he takes two long strides to the oven. I frantically wave my arms and blurt out, “Don’t open the door,” before I realize he had no intention of making that mistake. Instead, with a few deft movements, he turns off the oven, switches on the oven light, flicks on the hood then squats down.

I stand there, dumbfounded, as the fan above the stove whirs to life.

“No flames.” The deep tone is cool, calm, and collected.

“No,” I say, coughing into my sweatshirt with enough phlegm to make me sound like a lifetime smoker, though I’m positive my confirmation is the last thing he’s looking for.

“Good.”

In one smooth move, his glutes contract, and with thick thighs flexing, he rises, glances up at the ceiling, and lifts an arm. I swipe at my watery eyes, determined to catch the stretch of his perfectly proportioned torso as he reaches up, instantly silencing the ear-splitting smoke detector with one press of a button.

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