The Billionaire From Her Past. Leah Ashton
still was—it was just that eventually Seb had become actually stronger than her. 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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘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 mind.
‘Out!’ Mila said, as it landed a ball-width too wide of the centreline.
She still hit it back, and he blocked it with his racquet, bouncing it a few times before shoving the ball in his pocket.
‘Fifteen-all.’
Mila held up her hand before he went to serve again, to indicate that he should wait. He watched as she fussed with her hair, pushing it behind her ears and sliding in the clips that kept it out of her eyes. There was absolutely nothing provocative about what she was doing—if he ignored the pull of her singlet against her skin as she raised her arms. And the shape of her waist and breasts that the thin material so relentlessly clung to.
Which, despite his best efforts, he could not.
He turned away abruptly, and for the first time in his life smashing his racquet into the unforgiving surface of the court seemed an excellent option. He could almost feel it—the satisfaction of channelling his body into destroying something rather than generating seriously inappropriate thoughts about Mila.
His friend. His friend.
Stephanie’s best friend.
No, he wasn’t going to ruin his racquet—just as he would never allow himself to ruin things with Mila. He would not and he could not.
Not much was clear to him any more except two things: his new business and his need to have Mila back in his life. Platonically. Because even if Mila saw him as more than the once awkward, occasionally pimply teenage nerd who had lived next door—which seemed unlikely—a relationship was not an option anyway.
With Mila or with anyone.
He stepped back to the baseline.
Thwack.
Ace.
‘Thirty-fifteen.’
There had been women since Stephanie. Two, to be exact. Meaningless, nothingness. Found in a fog of grief in London bars without even the decency to remember their names. He’d woken up alone and even emptier—so he’d stopped.
It had been months since the last. Almost a year.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Winner—down the line.
‘Forty-fifteen.’
So he’d failed at casual sex and he’d clearly failed at marriage. He could barely remember the last time he’d slept with Stephanie—he’d always been working away, or late. Too late. And when he had been home there had still been distance between them. He’d fobbed Steph off when she’d attempted to address it. He couldn’t remember how many times.
He did remember the shape of her body as she’d slept alone in their bed, her back towards his side. Always.
He’d refused to make time for Steph and he’d stubbornly ignored—or at best minimised—her concerns about their relationship. The lack of communication. The lack of intimacy. Their effectively separate lives.
The concerns of the woman he was supposed to love.
What sort of man did that make him?
A man who hurt the people he loved. A man who shouldn’t do relationships. A man who’d driven his wife to make catastrophic choices.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Mila had chased his cross-court forehand down and thrown up a high lob. He ran to the net, waiting for the ball to fall and for the opportunity to smash that ball into oblivion. He had his racquet up, ready.
Up,