The maintenance tech on call doesn’t take too long to get back to me. I’m leafing through one of Kyle’s magazines, trying to convince him to show me his latest sexy story—which he’s still refusing to do—when my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. “Finally,” I say, scrambling to answer. “Yes?”
“Mr. Masterson?” The voice is gruff and masculine, as if I’ve interrupted his afternoon cookout. “I hear you have an A/C problem.”
“Yes! Thank God you called.” I shove the magazine off my lap and flash a quick grin at Kyle. “I just moved in and my apartment’s hotter than I don’t know what. I can’t even start to unpack—”
“What unit are you in again?” the technician says, interrupting me.
With a frown, I tell him, “Apartment G. Ginter Manor. I just moved in.”
“So you said.” He’s quiet for a while—I h
