Page 13 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

The scent of 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 the counter, 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 shifting beneath 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.

Like it’s the only thing stopping him from crossing the room and backing me against the wall again.

I sit, trying not to squirm under the weight of his gaze. I try to breathe normally. Try to ignore the way his forearms flex with every slice. I try to ignore how his shoulders strain under his shirt.

“What’s the occasion?” My voice is thin, a little too high. My voice is too high. Too light. Like I’m pretending this is normal.

“Weather’s breaking.” He nods toward the window, sunlight streaming through the thinning clouds. “Radio says we’ve got a clear window today before the next system moves in.”

“So we’re not stuck inside all day?” I can’t hide the relief—or the disappointment. I want out of these four walls, but I want him to stop pretending we’ re safe from each other.

He hesitates, then, softer, “Thought I might show you something. If you’re interested.”

His words are loaded, heavy with everything we didn’t finish last night. I see the storm in his eyes, the restraint stretched thin, ready to snap. I want to push him. I want to see what happens when he finally lets go.

I meet his gaze, let him see the hunger in my eyes. “I’m interested.”

His breath catches, just for a second. The tension between us hums—thick, electric, impossible to ignore. The air tastes like bread and coffee and longing.

I could push him. One word. One touch. One breath too close.

But not yet.

Let him simmer.

Let him suffer.

Let him burn.

He looks away, jaw clenched, fighting for control. I see the tremor in his hands as he sets the knife down, as he pours honey over the bread. I want to lick it from his fingers. I want to ruin him right back.

We eat in silence, every bite charged, every glance a dare. I wonder if he’s thinking about pinning me to the table, about taking me apart piece by piece, about making good on every filthy promise he made last night.

When he finally stands, the chair scraping back, the heat of his gaze blisters my skin. He holds out a hand, steady, but his knuckles are white.

“Come,” he says, voice rough with everything he isn’t saying. “Let’s go.”

And I follow, heart pounding, already burning for the storm I know is coming.

"Where?"

"Something you’ll enjoy. "

“The eagle nesting site?” I can’t quite hide the eagerness in my voice. Not after last night. Not after the way his hands left invisible fingerprints on my skin.

He nods, sliding a plate toward me. “Need to check it anyway. Trail might be rough after the rain.”

I take a bite of bread, eyes fluttering closed. The crust shatters beneath my teeth, yielding to a pillowy, tangy center. I moan before I can stop myself.

“This is incredible.”

That almost-smile flickers across his mouth, heat banked but not hidden. “Sourdough. Starter’s over five years old.”

“Something else you brought with you when you left the firefighting crew?”

He nods, gaze dropping to his plate. “One of the few things.” His voice is softer, the usual edge replaced by something quieter, more honest. There’s no wall between us now, only the faint, unspoken ache of restraint.

We eat in a silence that feels intimate, not awkward. Every brush of his hand, every accidental glance, sends a ripple of heat through me. When we finish, he packs water, food, and emergency gear. I gather my camera, pulse already quickening at the thought of being alone with him in the wild.

Outside, the world is scrubbed clean. Sunlight glances off rain-soaked pines, droplets clinging to needles like jewels. The air is cool, alive, scented with earth and resin and something wild.

“This way.” His voice is low, steady. He leads us onto a different trail, heading up toward a rocky outcropping. “About two miles. Gets steep.”

I fall in behind him, watching the way he moves—confident, sure-footed, every muscle working beneath his shirt. He owns this landscape, and I want to know what it feels like to be owned by him, even for a heartbeat.

“How’d you find this place?” I ask, needing to hear his voice, needing to keep the connection alive.

“Kim showed me.” He says her name without flinching, glancing back to check on me. “She mapped every eagle nest in the range. Taught me how to read the signs.”

“And you kept up her work,” I say it softly, but it lands between us like a secret.

He pauses at a fallen log, offering his hand. His grip is warm, calloused, steadying me as I climb over. The contact is brief, but it leaves a trail of fire up my arm. For a moment, I imagine those hands pinning me again, rough and gentle all at once.

“The eagles mate for life,” he says, voice roughening. “Same pair, same nest, year after year.”

“Unless something happens to one of them.”

He nods, pushing aside a low branch, holding it for me. “Kim tracked one male for six seasons. His mate disappeared in the third winter. He never took another. Just kept the nest alone until he stopped coming back.”

His words are scientific, but the ache beneath them is unmistakable. I study his profile, the hard line of his jaw, the sadness that lingers in his eyes. He’s talking about more than eagles.

The trail narrows, winding higher. Wind stirs the pines, the calls of birds echoing through the trees. We climb in silence, breath and heartbeat the only sounds between us.

A sudden movement in the brush snaps us both to attention. Caleb raises a hand, instantly alert. We freeze as a young deer steps into the open, trembling. Its leg is tangled in fishing line, blood welling around the cruel plastic.

“Poor thing.” My heart twists. “Can we help?”

Caleb’s gaze sharpens, assessing. “Maybe. If we move slow, don’t spook it.” He crouches, his voice dropping into a low, soothing hum—no words, just sound, gentle and commanding at once. The deer’s trembling eases, just a little.

“I need to get behind it. Can you keep its attention? Move to the right, talk to it. Softly.”

I nod, pulse thudding, and do as he says. The deer’s wild eyes track me, but it doesn’t bolt. I murmur nonsense, the gentlest words I can find, and Caleb moves—silent, controlled, every motion calculated to calm, not frighten.

In a blur, he’s behind the fawn, hands steady, strong but careful as he restrains it. “Fishing line. My front pocket—multitool.”