A Cup of Sugar

I wiped my brow as I worked on mixing the cake batter in front of me. What was supposed to be a one-time thing had turned into a tradition. Every year, on my friend Hanna's birthday, I made her a cake from scratch. It was the same cake every year: strawberry with cream cheese frosting. "It's the best kind of cake there is!" I recalled her saying once. "It's a classic!"

Be that as it may, I was mentally kicking myself for starting the whole thing. When I first made it for Hanna's birthday, I figured it would just be a sweet gesture of our friendship. At first, it was the perfect present. Hanna was ecstatic when she caught sight of the cake. I had always been extraordinarily gifted at baking, and that became even more obvious to Hanna once she took a bite of the cake. "Ohmygod, Cathy!" Hanna said, running the words together to sound like one. "This is incredible! You have to make this for my birthday next year!" Ever since then, Hanna had requested a cake for her birthday each year. Sometimes it seemed to me that the only reason we had stayed friends for so long was only because Hanna wanted that cake. But I made it anyway, thinking that making her a cake was less expensive than buying her an actual gift. Besides, I loved to bake, so it wasn't really all that bad.

I poured the batter into a round, 9-inch baking pan, careful not to make a mess. After scraping out the last of the batter into the pan with a spoon, I placed it in the oven and marked the time. I had about half an hour before the cake would be done. Just enough time to work on the frosting. I took out all the ingredients I would need for the task: butter, cream cheese, sugar, and vanilla extract. After blending the butter and cream cheese together until they were a creamy mixture, I then began to measure out two cups of sugar. However, after pouring the entire contents of the bag into the measuring cup, I realized that I still needed about a cup more. "Dammit," I mumbled to myself. "I must have used it all on the cake."

I went to the cabinet and searched its contents, hoping to find more sugar hiding among the shelves, but to no avail. "Well, crap," I said. What was I supposed to do? It was late at night. Surely no stores would be open at this hour. I contemplated my options, but couldn't think of any. At that moment, a rogue thought crossed my mind. The man across the hall, Peter. He'd moved into the apartment complex nearly five months ago, and yet he'd barely said two words to me. Surely he'd have some sugar I could borrow? No, that'd be silly. He'd probably think I was using that as an excuse to talk to him. Of course, it wasn't exactly untrue; I DID want to talk to him. He was darkly handsome, with dark hair, a strong jaw, and the slightest bit of scruff. He was quiet, yet there was a certain air about him that exuded confidence.

I mulled over the idea before realizing it was the only real option I had. So, I plucked up my courage, grabbed my measuring cup, and walked out the door of my apartment and into the hall. The complex was eerily quiet this time of night, causing it to feel as if I were in a bad slash flick. I shivered at the thought and began to doubt myself. What was I doing? Going up to the door of a man I knew nothing about, that's what. Practically a stranger! Isn't this how it happens in those crime television shows? Don't be ridiculous, I thought, trying to calm my nerves. I'm sure Peter's a perfect gentleman.

I knocked on his door and waited for what seemed like an eternity. Oh God, I thought, what if he's asleep? And then an even worse thought crossed my mind: What if I wake him up? Just as I was about to retreat back to the safety of my own apartment, the door finally opened, and suddenly I found myself ogling the incredibly sexy man who stood shirtless before me. I'd forgotten just how incredibly sexy he really was. His 6'2" frame towered over my 5'7", making me feel as if I were in the presence of a god. And he was certainly godly; he looked as though he'd just woken up, with his messy, tousled hair, yet his steely grey eyes stared at me intently. His wrinkled pajama bottoms hung low on his hips, accentuating the perfect V-line that traveled beneath the thin fabric. Not to mention his abs looked as though they were chiseled out of stone.