Page 22 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
Or help me come apart in his hands.
Honestly, either would be fine.
Thunder cracks directly overhead—loud enough to rattle the walls, shake the floor, send my pulse into overdrive. I flinch. More fromthe break in the moment than the sound itself. My body moves before I think—closer to him. Seeking warmth. Grounding. Shelter in the form of his impossible body and maddening restraint.
He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t reach for me either. Just stands there, rain-slick and bare-chested, eyes burning with something I can’t name, chest rising in slow, even rhythm.
Like he’s unaffected.
Like he didn’t just watch me fall halfway in lust with him in real time.
The tension lingers. Still thick. Still electric. But the spell has cracked around the edges.
The rain pours harder. The sky growls above us.
And I grab for the nearest excuse. Anything to get my hands to stop shaking and my brain to start pretending this isn’t what it is.
“Storms scared me when I was a kid,” I blurt. Too fast. Too bright. My voice is a brittle thing between us. “My dad would make me count the seconds between lightning and thunder. Said if I understood it, I wouldn’t be afraid.”
I look anywhere but at him. At the wall. The blanket. My own damn hands.
Because I was this close to kissing him.
Caleb doesn’t speak right away. Just watches me, something softer flickering behind that guarded expression.
“Smart man.”
“He was.” The answer slips out more raw than I expect. My throat tightens. Emotion sneaks up on me like the cold had earlier—sudden, uninvited, impossible to ignore. I look away, pretending to study the rivulets of water racing down the windowpane. “That’s why this project matters. It’s not just about the photographs.”
When I glance back at him, his gaze is steady. Grounding. Not just interested—listening.
“What is it about?”
“Finishing what he started.” I swallow hard. “He spent thirty years documenting predatory birds—one perfect photo of each species found in North America. The golden eagle was the one that got away. His white whale.”
"You mentioned that." A ghost of a smile pulls at the corner of Caleb’s mouth. “You promised to get it for him.”
“I did.” The words come out quiet. “He passed two years ago. And I told myself I’d finish the collection. Complete his work. Even if I had to chase a storm across a mountain to do it.”
The rain drums harder, wind whistling through the gaps in the shelter’s seams, but in here it’s oddly still. Not warm—but no longer cold either.
“You get it yet?” Caleb asks.
“Not yet,” I murmur. “But I’m close. I can feel it.”
He nods, gaze distant for a beat. Then: “He’d be proud.”
I blink.
Simple words. But they hit harder than anything I expected.
“Thanks,” I whisper, throat tightening again—but not from sadness this time. “That means more than you know.”
We fall into silence again, but it’s different now. No longer charged with heat or awkwardness, but something quieter. He slides down to sit on the bench, resting his elbows on his knees, and I take the other end, careful to leave space between us this time.
He passes me the lantern, and for a moment our fingers brush—cool skin to warm, steady hands to jittery ones.
But this time, I don’t mistake the contact for an invitation.
