Page 37 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
The rain continues its steady patter against the glass, amplifying the charged silence in the cabin.
Somewhere out there, he waits.
Chapter 10
The scentof baking bread drags me from sleep—thick, yeasty, primal. It curls through the ranger station like temptation, sweet and slow, wrapping itself around my senses and tugging me out of dreams I’m not ready to leave.
Dreams where Caleb’s hands aren’t just holding me… they’re claiming me. Pinning me. Tearing me apart in the most delicious ways.
For a moment, I lie still, soaked in warmth, pretending the ache in my core is from his mouth on my skin, not some phantom memory I’m burning to make real. But the smell—it won’t let me linger. It pulls at me, relentless and tender all at once.
Like him.
I throw on jeans and a sweater. My fingers rake through my hair, but nothing tames the wildness inside me. Not after last night. Not after what we said. What we didn’t do.
My bare feet hit the floor. I pad into the main room—and freeze.
Caleb stands at thecounter, sleeves shoved up, forearms dusted with flour. He kneads dough with strong hands, each movement controlled, focused, almost meditative.
Calloused hands. Strong hands. Dangerous hands.
The same ones that pinned me to the wall like a promise.
A loaf cools beside him, golden and perfect. The whole scene is wrong—he’s too big, too dangerous, too raw for this kind of gentleness.
I want all of him, but nothing about him is safe.
He’s all coiled muscle and tension, too big, too raw for the softness of warm bread and honeyed silence. The contrast slices through me, sharp and aching. I want to taste it. All of it. The gentleness. The violence. The way he makes me feel like a live wire stretched too tight.
His gaze lifts, locks with mine.
Snap.
Electricity explodes between us, wild and hungry and unspoken. His nod is casual, but his eyes? His eyes are pure heat. Remembering. Imagining. Needing.
“Morning.” His voice scrapes low and rough, still thick with sleep and something darker. “Coffee’s ready.”
“You bake?” My voice comes out breathless, incredulous, betraying too much.
A flush climbs his neck. “Supply runs are limited. Easier to make my own.” He looks away, but not before I catch the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes flick over me—quick, assessing, hungry. Like he’s remembering the words I moaned into the dark. And wishing he’d answered them with action.
I pour coffee, hands trembling just enough to betray me. I watch him work, the flex of his forearms, the way his fingers sink into the dough. I remember those hands on my skin, the way he held me against the wall, the way he stopped—barely.
“Where’d you learn?” I ask, needing to fill the silence, needing to hear his voice.
“My grandmother.” He rinses his hands, muscles shiftingbeneath his shirt. “She believed every person should know how to create something essential.” He grabs a towel, dries his hands slow. Controlled.
His words hang between us, loaded. I wonder if he’s thinking about what else he could create with those hands—what he could destroy.
“Bread is pretty essential.” My voice drops, teasing—but there’s an edge beneath it. Hunger, hot and sharp.
That mouth of his curves. Not a full smile—just a flicker. Dangerous. Male. Heat simmers just below the surface.
“That was her point.” His eyes linger, heat simmering just beneath the surface. “Hungry?”
For you.The words almost slip out. Instead, I nod, pulse thudding in my throat.
He slices the loaf, the knife gliding through the crust with a satisfying crackle. He adds butter, honey, apples—each movement precise, deliberate, as if he needs the ritual to keep his hands busy, to keep from reaching for me.
