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And significantly taller.
    At some point she’d known exactly how many sets she’d won against Seb—she’d kept a tally all the way through high school and into uni, enjoying their semi-regular matches because, if she was truthful, it had been the one thing she’d done just with Seb. For Steph had been many things, but definitely not an athlete.
    But somewhere along the line Mila had forgotten her hard-earned leading score against Seb. Now, as she dropped her bag at the side of the net, and then fished out her water, racquet and a skinny can of new tennis balls, she searched her memory for a hint—but there was nothing. She might be leading by one or a hundred—she had no idea.
    Like so much that had once been important to her when it came to Sebastian and Stephanie, over time she’d allowed it to become less important. And eventually to fade completely away.
    Seb stood on the opposite side of the net, his racquet extended, the strings flat, ready for Mila to place a couple of tennis balls on its surface.
    He raised an eyebrow. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
    She nodded firmly. ‘Yes,’ she said—and she was, she realised. ‘But I was thinking...let’s wipe our scores. Start with a clean slate.’
    She couldn’t change the past—and, while it might be complicated, she did have this second chance with Seb.
    His smile was wide. ‘I like the sound of that,’ he said.
    Mila dropped the tennis balls onto his racquet, then stuffed two in her pockets as she headed for the baseline.
    â€˜Although,’ he called out as she pivoted to face him, ‘it’s pretty sad that you can’t just admit I was winning.’
    And Mila laughed as she smacked a forehand in his direction to start their warm-up.
    Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea, after all.
    * * *
    This had been a terrible idea.
    â€˜Three-love,’ Mila announced gleefully as they changed ends. Her eyes sparkled beneath the floodlights as they crossed paths at the net.
    From now on all efforts related to repairing his friendship with Mila would definitely require more clothing.
    How had he ever forgotten those legs? They went on and on...
    Well, no, he hadn’t forgotten them. He was human, after all. He hadn’t married Stephanie and then instantly become blind to beautiful women. Certainly not to Mila. But before it had been an objective realisation: Mila Molyneux has rather nice legs. Kind of like: The sky is blue. I don’t like raw tomato. My mum cooks the world’s best spaghetti and meatballs . That type of thing.
    Certainly nothing more.
    Certainly not this...this visceral reaction to the curve of thigh and calf. This tightening in his belly...this heat to his skin. As sudden and as unexpected as a punch to his stomach.
    It was his serve. He took a deep breath as he bounced the ball a handful of times before rocking back onto his heel as he tossed the ball high into the night sky.
    Thwack .
    Ace. Good.
    â€˜Fifteen-love.’
    But was it sudden? This reaction?
    He hadn’t let himself analyse what he’d said yesterday, or questioned his choice of words. He’d told himself he’d just been speaking the truth when he’d told Mila her eyes were incredible. That she was perfect.
    Hadn’t he always thought so? Objectively, of course. So why verbalise those facts now? Especially when she’d been standing so close to him. Close enough that it had only been after she’d walked away that he’d realised his heart-rate was decelerating, that his body had registered more than simple comfort in her proximity.
    Thwack.
    The ball landed so far past the service line that Mila didn’t bother calling it. Instead she grinned, catching his eye as she took a couple of steps forward, ready for a less powerful second serve.
    Thwack.
    He’d hit it even harder than his first serve, his tennis tactics being the furthest thing from his