“Nice costume,” Mónica, the receptionist, said when Easton and I walked into the building. “I didn’t know the season where little kids dress up and beg for candy had already started,” she mocked.
“It’s not a costume. It’s my cheerleading uniform,” I clarified.
She smiled and looked me up and down before raising an eyebrow.
“Looks like a costume to me.”
“Mónica,” Easton muttered as he approached the front desk, resting his elbows on the worn wooden counter. “I’d like to know why you gave this girl the keys to my apartment so she could walk in without my permission the other day.”
His tone made it clear he was annoyed. And honestly, I understood. Having a girl—me—walk into his apartment without permission or warning had to be pretty irritating.
“I thought she was your girlfriend,” she
