Page 15 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
"Rehabilitation enclosures. For injured animals." He hesitates, then adds, "You can come. If you want."
The invitation catches me off guard. "I'd like that."
"We leave in twenty minutes."
While he prepares supplies, I rush through getting ready, excitement building at the prospect of finally getting outside. My clothes have dried overnight, hanging near the woodstove. My boots, still damp but wearable, wait by the door.
I retrieve my backup camera from my bag—a smaller model than my professional one, but it survived in its waterproof case. Better than nothing if we encounter anything worth capturing.
Caleb hands me a protein bar and a travel mug of coffee like we’re a married couple heading out for a hike instead of two strangers barely on speaking terms. “Breakfast on the move.”
Be still, my ovaries.
His fingers brush mine, andit takes every ounce of self-control not to suck in a breath like some virginal schoolgirl. Not that there’s anything virginal about the thoughts currently occupying 98% of my brain.
The morning air is crisp enough to bite, rich with the scent of pine needles crushed underfoot, damp earth, and moss still soaked from last night’s storm. But under all that—threaded through like some sinful secret—is him. That maddening mix of sweat, cedar, and clean skin, like he just stepped out of a cold shower and straight into my last coherent thought.
It’s infuriating, really. He lives like a damn hermit, chops wood with a glare, probably thinks body wash is a luxury for the weak—and still manages to smell like every forbidden craving I’ve ever had.
Water drips from the branches overhead, a slow patter of sound that blends with the crunch of our boots on the trail. One rogue drop slips down the collar of my jacket, trailing along my spine like a cold finger. I shiver and pull the zipper higher, though it does nothing to shield me from the other kind of chill creeping through me—the kind born of watching him move.
Caleb walks ahead, every step a lesson in wilderness poetry. Graceful. Grounded. Like the forest shifts around him instead of the other way around. Muscles flex beneath his cargo pants, each stride tugging my gaze lower no matter how many times I remind myself to be an adult. A professional. Not some drooling cavewoman with a tree fetish.
But God, that ass. Carved by divine spite and covered in tactical fabric that should be illegal. Every flex, every roll of muscle makes my thighs clench in protest, like they’re auditioning for a role I didn’t sign them up for.
Focus, I command myself. Eyes up. Mind out of the gutter.
But the gutter is warm, and it smells like him.
My knee throbs, still tender from twisting it yesterday, but I push through. Not because I’m brave. Hell no. Because I refuse to be the whining city girl who can’t keep up with the mountain god who probably bench-presses grizzlies for fun and whose voice I just mentally used in a very vivid tree-bondage fantasy.
“How far are these shelters?” I ask, more to break the fever dream than for actual information. My voice comes out too breathy, too high. Like I’ve been running. Or fantasizing about him dragging me off-trail and saying get on your knees and beg me.
He glances back. Eyes flick from my face to my feet, lingering long enough to catch the flush creeping up my throat. And then higher. Straight into my eyes.
There’s a flicker there—something unreadable. Knowing. Disapproving. Maybe amused.
“Half a mile further.”
That’s it. No reaction. No smirk. Just that sharp, steady gaze like he’s already guessed exactly what I’ve been thinking and filed it under unacceptable behavior from forest guests.
I clear my throat, look away, and try to think about anything other than bark texture, rope tension, or the way his voice would sound murmuring good girl against my neck.
God help me. This hike is going to kill me. And if it doesn’t, the tension will.
I school my features into something that—if you squint—might pass for composed, even though my brain is still in full-blown erotica narrator mode. Somewhere between nature documentary and filthy rope-play fantasy, I’m mentally scripting a scene where that calloused hand wraps around my throat while he pins me to a tree and makes me beg.
“Need to rest?” he asks, his tone maddeningly neutral.
Bastard.
“No.” I straighten like pride alone can brace my knee, even as pain pulses down my leg like a warning flare. “I’m fine.”
One eyebrow lifts, a flick of dry skepticism that saysSure you are, but he doesn’t argue.
Because he’s decent.
Respectful.
