Page 9 of Owning Eva

“What?” I grunt, stopping in the hallway.

“You’ve been… off, man,” he says, handing me a bottle.

I take a pull from the drink, debating whether to tell him to fuck off. Instead, I say, “Eva.”

His smirk deepens. “That bad, huh?”

“She’s… different, brother,” I admit, the words rough as they leave my throat.

He chuckles, leaning against the wall. “Let me guess. You trynna figure out how to make a move without fucking it up.”

I don’t respond, but my jaw tightens.

“Don’t overthink it, man,” he says, his tone serious now. “You just need to show her you’re serious. She’s good people.”

Like I wouldn’t tear the fucking world down if it meant getting close to her.

“Thank you,” I reply, nodding.

“Good.” Liam claps me on the shoulder, his grin returning. “Cause you look at the poor girl like you want to fucking eat her alive.”

I shake my head, smiling. “Think we don’t all remember how fucked you were about Em?”

He grins huge, winking. “But I got the girl.”

We both laugh and wish each other a good night.

Liam is right. I just need to make my move.

Nine

Eva

I step into the lounge later that evening, drawn by the crackle of the fireplace and the smell of warm apple cider. Dinner was fun, but I need some air. Or space to untangle my thoughts.

Eli Jackson has officially taken up residence in my head, and I have no idea how to evict him.

The sledding earlier was so much fun. And the way he looked at me after, his gaze heavy and warm, like he was debating what to do with me? I’m not built for that kind of attention. My life is friends, family, deadlines, book signings, and the occasional date that ends with me wondering why I bothered. Guys like Eli—guys who make you feel like you’re the only thing in their universe—don’t happen for me.

Or so I thought.

The lounge is mostly empty, except for a couple tucked into a corner booth and—oh God.

Him.

Eli is stretched out in one of the massive leather armchairs, his long legs sprawled out like he owns the place. A drink in his hand, as the firelight dances across his chiseled features, making him look like some kind of hot titan sent to test my resolve. He glances up as I walk in, and the moment our eyes meet, my stomach flips.

“Carter.” His voice is low and rough, just the sound of it sending a shiver down my spine.

“Jackson.” I manage to keep my tone even, although though my pulse is doing the Harlem Shake.

“Come sit.” He nods to the chair across from him, his gaze never leaving mine.

I hesitate, but the thought of retreating feels more dangerous than facing him. I take the seat, smoothing my sweater as I settle in.

“You look cozy,” he says, his lips twitching into that infuriating almost-smile.

I glance down at my oversized sweater and leggings, the perfect outfit for someone planning to hide from the world. “It’s called surviving winter, hockey boy.”

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