Page 9 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger
His gaze flickers toward me, unreadable. For half a second, I think—hope—I catch the faintestflush climbing his neck. But it’s gone before I can confirm, swallowed up by that stoic wall he wears like armor.
“Basic maintenance,” he mutters, wiping his hands on a rag. “Part of the job.”
Of course. Just a man. Doing man things. With man hands. In man pants. Fixing things. Looking like a wilderness-dwelling fever dream brought to life by the sheer force of my suppressed libido.
Totally normal.
We start collecting tools. I follow his lead, pretending not to catalog every brush of muscle beneath damp flannel. The wind shifts as we work, sharp and biting, knifing through the trees. It carries the metallic tang of more rain, mixing with pine and cold soil. Caleb pauses, face tilted to the clouds, jaw tight, reading the sky like it’s speaking just to him.
“Another system moving in.”
I glance upward, the clouds bruised and hanging low, thick as smoke. “Seems like this mountain makes its own rules.”
“It does,” he says, and something in his voice softens. Just a shade. Like the storm stirred something awake. “Angel’s Peak creates a microclimate. Western slope gets twice the rainfall of the eastern.”
I blink. Did I just unlock a hidden bonus level? Caleb, Storm Whisperer edition?
“Well, look at that,” I murmur. “A man of weather and few words.”
He doesn’t answer, just hands me a wrench and brushes past, close enough that the heat of his body trails behind like a promise. And I’m suddenly, painfully aware that I am wet.
Not from the rain.
From wanting him.
From standing too close to a living, breathing contradiction—rough hands and quiet knowledge, brutal strength and gentle restraint.
God help me, I want him to snap. Just once. Just for me.
I open my mouth to tease him, maybe nudge that faint spark of interest into an actual conversation, but a fat raindrop splats square between my eyes.
“Inside.” He doesn’t wait for my response—just scoops up the remaining tools and jogs toward the cabin, and somehow I’m running after him like we’re starring in some rugged outdoorsy rom-com.
Chapter 4
By the timewe hit the porch, rain is falling in sheets, the kind that turns paths to rivers and jeans to cold denim torture devices. Caleb’s already inside, stoking the fire like he’s been waiting for the chance to wrestle with logs.
I shake out my jacket, peeling off layers while trying not to ogle him—and failing, again.
There’s just something about the way he moves—efficient, grounded. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. He doesn’t just build a fire. He commands it into existence.
The rough scrape of the log against the hearth, the flare of orange catching dry bark—it’s intimate. Primal. Like foreplay in flannel.
I pull out my phone, tapping the screen. Nothing.
“Dead,” I mutter, sliding it back into my pocket. “My last connection to civilization. Gone.”
“There’s a satellite phone for emergencies.” He doesn’t even look up. “Radio too. Storms make it unreliable.”
“Thanks, doomsday prepper.” I sigh. “Wasn’t looking to call 911. Just… Instagram. Or maybe my assistant. She’ll think I’ve joined a cult.”
“They’ll manage.”
His voice is so even, so maddeningly calm. Like he doesn’t get rattled. Like he’s never once thrown his phone at a wall or ugly-cried over a dead charger.
"True." I wander to the window, watching rain cascade down the glass. "Still weird to be completely cut off."
We settle into our silences like two people learning to breathe the same air.
