I pulled in to George’s driveway and parked next to a raised yellow jeep, sides sprayed with mud. It had huge tires and snow gear strapped to it, and a girl was leaning in through the open driver door, rummaging in the glove box. Her ass was aimed my way, wrapped in high-waisted yoga pants so tight they must nearly be cutting off her circulation. I grabbed my bag, and my gaze again drifted to her butt, studying the way its full, round shape made the pattern in the pants stretch out.
“Help you with anything?” I called out, smiling.
The girl turned around. She looked Chinese like George, but maybe with one white parent. She was young, thin, and cute, with a serious look on her face, wearing a sweatshirt with a high-priced private university’s name across the front in big square letters. “Who are you?” she said back, looking me up and down.
“Friend of George’s,” I said, tilting my head towards the skis on top of my car, “We’re going skiing.”
I could feel the judgment billowing like steam from her appraising stare. “Oh,” she said, her gaze lingering, “Ok.” Then, without another word, she turned back to her task.