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Things were even more confusing when we arrived and saw no sight of Harry or AnneMarie, or of a private train, or indeed of any train. The next train from New York was not due until much later that evening. A train was pulling in, but from the North, an express run from Montreal. We idly watched it pull in, then were astonished when a window dropped on one of the last cars, and Harry leaned forth to grin madly and wave his arms. We waved back and rushed over to where he was clambering down to the platform.“Harry, where in the world have you been?” I asked.“I sent a telegram saying we would be in by one! We’re not late, are we?” he replied. He kissed my cheek and embraced James, and I took quick stock of him. Harry Kendrickson was still the boisterous scalawag who had tried to court me a year prior, a charming gentleman a few inches short of James, now about twenty and nine, of an average build, clean-shaven and with thick and curly hair, brown eyes, and a grin permanently affixed to. The first couple hours had gone well, and I had pretty well nailed down the final drafts for a couple class projects while we listened to Maroon 5 sing something catchy about Mick Jagger. After that, though, my attention had wandered. Kate was wearing a red tank-top-like garment with a swooping neckline and thin, thin straps that was like this incredibly flimsy cage enclosing a couple of healthy, robust wild animals that were raring to get out. If anything, it was even more enticing than the Lycra top that had moved me to passion—or exquisite horniness, anyway—a few weeks before. Just as had happened when Kate studied next to me wearing the aforementioned Lycra garb, I repeatedly found myself staring over at Kate’s cleavage instead of proofreading my research paper. Did she really think there was any way we wouldn’t end up in bed when she came over clothed in such a fashion, especially in hundred degree weather? If so, Kate was either less savvy in the ways of the male beast that I.
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