Sticky Situationship (It’s Complicated)

1. Libby | Four Months Ago

Libby | Four Months Ago

I need a dozen homemade 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 by people , 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 my fellow 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 a welcome to the building plate of homemade cupcakes at midnight on a random Tuesday.

Especially, because, if I was going 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.

***

I jerk awake with a 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.

That’s all it takes?

“You okay?” Concern creases his brow as I try and fail to stifle another cough. Before I can respond, he guides me across my place toward the windows with a warm, gentle hand on my bare, low back.

“Here,” he says, breaking contact to open the window. “Get some fresh air.”

I sink onto the windowsill and gulp in deep breaths of frigid New York City night air as delicate snowflakes fall outside. He drops to his knees in front of me, his hand innocently resting on my thigh.

At least, it seems as if he’s unaware of the touch. I, on the other hand, am not aware of a single thing besides the heat of his fingers ricocheting through my sweatpants, tremors shooting out like fireworks from the point of contact.

“Just a mild case of smoke inhalation,” I manage, clearing my throat and forcing my gaze up to his face rather than staring at the connection.

Big mistake.

Gray eyes, the color of charcoal, meet and hold my gaze. His irises shimmer like dark gemstones. They’re piercing yet tender. The shade is unusual but also somehow familiar. I sink into their captivating depth, drawn like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the magnetic pull.

“That a professional diagnosis?”

“What?” I murmur, distracted by what I have now officially deemed to qualify as bedroom eyes .

“Are you a physician?”

The question pulls me back to my senses. Strictly speaking I am one even if most days I don’t feel like it quite yet. But it’s interesting he said, physician rather than the more common doctor. “Technically.”

He eyes me but drops the subject. Squeezing my leg, he rises and pads back to the kitchen, the muscles in his broad back and shoulders rippling. I drink in the sight, absently rubbing the spot on my leg where his warmth lingers through the soft jersey knit.

A moment later, he returns with a glass of water, eyeing my bed covered with study materials as he picks a couple of flashcards up off the floor.

“Hypoparathyroidism?”

It takes a minute for my muddled brain to process the term, distracted as I am by this hunk of a firefighter, but finally reply, “A condition where the body produces insufficient parathyroid, leading to low calcium levels in the blood.”

He flips over the card and hums a murmur of approval. “Well done.”

He returns the cards to the haphazard stack on the bed. Shifting some papers aside, he settles on the edge of my comforter. His calloused fingers brush mine as he passes the glass of water. I flinch at the spark of contact.

Sure, it’s been a while—okay, a long while—since I’ve had sex, but never have I ever been so unequivocally attracted to a man at first glance. I mean, yeah, he’s half naked and clearly not a stranger to the gym, and sure, he’s already on my bed, but still.

Thanks to his quick response and fast actions, the smoke is clearing, but now, my body is on fire. So much for getting any studying done tonight.

One dark brow quirks up as he sweeps me with another assessing look, but this time, it feels like the analysis has nothing to do with the alarm. Or my safety.

My mouth goes bone dry, but the parched sensation can’t be blamed on the smoke this time. Obediently, I raise the glass to my lips. It’s impossible not to let my eyes trail over the tanned, defined lines of his chest cover with a dusting of dark hair, and those mouthwatering carved abdominals…

“You’ve got a little something—” he starts, reaching a hand to his face as if brushing something off the corner of his mouth.

“What? Oh!” I frantically swipe at the corner of my mouth, disconcerted to see chocolate batter on my finger when I pull it away. Chances are it’s smudged across my entire cheek.

“You’re good.” His wry tone snaps my gaze up to find a lopsided grin curling his lips. Bastard. “What were you baking?”

“Chocolate cupcakes.” I gesture at the open textbook, flashcards, and notebooks strewn over my rumpled bedding. “I was just resting my eyes for a minute while studying. I must have forgotten to set a timer and didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Ah,” he chuckles, as if he can read me—or maybe, my old sports bra, sweatpants, and messy ponytail—like an open book.

I wrinkle my nose. “Do you get that a lot?”

A soft rumble emerges from deep in his chest, and I can’t help tracking the sound, my eyes dropping to catch the hard planes and angles across the broad expanse. “Actually, it’s a new one for me.”

“I suppose I should be glad you happened to move in next door. Otherwise, I’d probably still be trying to fan the smoke detector,” I admit sheepishly.

“Actually,” he says, holding my gaze steady. “It seems like I’m the lucky one.”

Whoa. I wasn’t expecting that. My gaze drifts over him again, lingering perhaps a little too long on the defined cut of his hip dipping below those low-slung athletic shorts. I forcibly tear my eyes away as heat blossoms in my cheeks.

In an instant, the atmosphere seems to thicken around us, the air charged with an electric tension. I lick my dry lips and drain the remaining water from my glass. His intense stare tracks the motion like a sniper lining up a target in his sights. The room’s shadows seem to accentuate every grooved muscle, beckoning me to reach out and trace the tantalizing divots and ridges…

“Here, let me take that.” He reaches for the empty glass and spins to his side to set it on the nightstand. Time skids to a halt, and it’s like a slow motion old-time movie plays out right before my eyes when I see what’s about to happen. Panic prickles down my spine, but it’s too late. I freeze, praying he, somehow, doesn’t spot it. Or, even worse, what’s next to it.