An hour later, dinner had ended. Or more accurately, Ross had finished eating—and he had eaten like a man who had been denied for too long.
He didn't just eat the meal; he consumed it with intensity, savoring every bite as though it were his last.
There was something carnal in the way he chewed, the way he held his fork like it was an extension of his will.
Jane, who had been too tense to eat at first, found herself unconsciously nibbling from her plate.
Watching him—how present he was in everything he did—made it impossible not to respond in some way.
It was unsettling.
Ross ate like he lived: unapologetically, confidently, and always in control.
And as she observed him across the flickering candlelight, Jane's carefully constructed judgments started to shift.
He wasn't attractive in the conventional sense—no sharp jawline, no charming smile that could melt a woman's defenses.
