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My tank top must have ridden up while I was working because his palms land against bare skin, his fingers spreading across my waist as he steadies me.

Jesus. When did his hands get so big? Or so strong?

Stop. Don’t think about that. Stop thinking altogether.

Tightening my grip on the ladder, I force myself to concentrate on where I place my feet instead of the warmth of his palm against my skin.

His hand follows me down, steadying me whenever I shift my weight, and it takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to lean into his touch.

Not to remember what those hands used to feel like holding mine.

Not to wonder what they’d feel like now.

“There,” he murmurs when we reach the bottom.

His hands tighten around my waist before he lifts me the last few inches and sets me gently on the grass.

For one stupid second, neither of us moves.

His hands are still on me.

Mine are resting on his shoulders.

And we’re standing far too close for two people who are supposed to be nothing to each other anymore.

I quickly step back.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” His stare lingers on me for another beat before he clears his throat and looks toward the house. “Mind if I grab a glass of water?”

Part of me wants to point out that his house is literally across the street.

The other part—the pathetic part that has missed him so utterly that even a few extra minutes feels like something worth stealing—wins.

“Sure.”

Without another word, he follows me inside and into the kitchen.

“I have lemonade,” I offer.

“Thanks. That would be great.”

I’m about to turn around and grab the pitcher from the fridge when Milo turns on the faucet and cups his hands beneath the stream, splashing cold water over his face and the back of his neck. He does it once, then twice more, then decides that’s not good enough. The next thing I know, he’s grabbing the hem of his T-shirt and pulling it over his head.

Oh. Okay, then.

He tosses the shirt aside and bends over the sink, sticking his head beneath the faucet and letting the water run through his hair and down his neck.

And I just stand there, watching him.

Apparently, my brain has decided to abandon every other function in favor of appreciating the view.

And what a view.

Water drips from the ends of his hair, trickling down the back of his neck and following the deep grooves of muscle along his shoulders and spine. His back is broader than I remember, the muscles shifting beneath his tanned skin as he braces his hands against the edge of the sink.

When he finally straightens, I get an equally distracting view of his chest, where droplets of water trail over the hard ridges of his abs before disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.