Page 15 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

Morning light slants through the cabin windows, gold and soft, striping the floor and painting my skin. I surface from sleep slowly, drifting in the warmth left by the woodstove, the hush of rain on the roof, and the solid, unfamiliar weight of an arm draped across my waist.

We fell asleep tangled together on a nest of blankets in front of the fire, conversation spinning out into the dark—no more walls, just questions and confessions, secrets traded in low voices as the storm battered the world outside.

We talked for hours, voices low in the hush of night, slipping past defenses we didn’t know we were ready to drop.

I learned the shape of his grief—the jagged edges he keeps hidden under muscle and silence.

The tenderness threaded into his voice when he talks about the forest. The way his eyes go soft when he thinks no one’s watching.

He asked about my father. My mother. The ache of never staying long enough to be left behind. I answered with truths I’ve never let live outside my chest.

And now, in the early hush of morning, I lie still, not wanting to break whatever spell held him here through the night. His body curls around mine like a shield, heat seeping through the thin cotton of my shirt. His breath coasts over my neck—slow, even, until it changes.

The shift is subtle. A soft inhale, then the flex of muscle. The slide of his palm over my stomach, spreading wide. Not sleep. Not chance. A choice.

My body sparks to life.

I stay perfectly still, heart pounding against his hand. I want to push back into him, grind against the hardness pressing into the curve of my ass. I want to tempt the restraint out of him, beg him to stop pretending.

“Morning.” His voice is a low growl, rough with sleep and something darker. Something hungry.

I turn in his arms. His eyes are half-lidded, hair tousled, stubble shadowing the hard lines of his jaw. There’s no armor here. Just heat. Just him. And me. Tangled in the aftermath of too many truths and not enough touch.

“Morning.” My voice comes out breathless, pulled from somewhere low and wanting.

His thumb skims my cheek, brushing the corner of my mouth. Lingering. Watching. Waiting. My breath stutters. His gaze drops to my lips—and holds. The tension pulls taut, electric, like the air right before a storm tears open the sky.

I don’t move. I can’t. I’m strung tight, aching for him to break first.

His hand slips lower, thumb teasing the edge of my hip bone. Every nerve lights up. One move. One breath. That’s all it would take.

The radio crackles. Loud. Abrasive. Final.

He flinches like it burned him, and the moment is gone. He rolls away, dragging the sheet with him, tucking himself behind the shield of routine. The ranger. The protector. The man who almost let himself have me.

Frustration claws through my chest. I sit up slowly, letting the cool air replace the warmth he left behind.

Last night, every word he said, every lingering touch, was a promise.

But if he’s going to ruin me like he swore—if he’s going to leave marks I can’t hide—then he’s going to have to stop holding back.

He’s going to have to stop pretending I’m something he can resist.

I will beg for many things, but I won’t beg for that.

Not again.

He finishes the radio call, turning to me with a wry smile. “Another tree fell on the roof overnight. I need to assess the damage.”

Just like that, the fragile intimacy of morning is gone, replaced by duty, the false comfort of structure.

But something’s shifted. I see it in the way his hand lingers when he passes me the coffee mug, his fingers brushing mine just a second too long.

In the way his gaze catches and holds, heat banked low and dangerous behind those eyes, like a fire smoldering beneath snow.

He works quickly, muscles flexing beneath his flannel as he lifts branches and climbs the ladder. When he strips off his shirt, I can’t stop staring at the strength in his arms, the way his body moves—controlled, powerful, capable of so much restraint and, I suspect, so much more.

“See something interesting?” His voice startles me, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes.

Heat floods my cheeks, but I hold his gaze. “Just making sure you don’t fall. I’d hate to have to drag you back inside.”

“I’ll try to stay upright for you.” A genuine smile breaks across his face, rare and devastating.

By mid-morning, the cabin is restored, but the tension between us is anything but settled. He checks his watch, frowning.

“Need to hike out to the weather station. The one where we…” He trails off, but I know exactly what he means.

“The one where you almost kissed me,” I say quietly, letting the memory hang between us.

“Yeah. That one.” He looks at me, and something dangerous flashes in his eyes.

“I’ll come with you.” I dare him to refuse.

He just nods, another wall crumbling.

The forest is alive after the storm—every leaf and blade of grass shining, the air sharp and clean.

We walk side by side, our shoulders brushing, and the conversation flows easily and deeply.

He shows me the weather station, his passion for the work spilling over into technical explanations and quiet pride.

I watch the way his hands move and the way his mouth curves when he’s talking about something he loves.

I want to taste that mouth, feel those hands on my skin, and see what happens when he finally stops holding back.

“You’re still saving lives without running into fires.” I tease him, but my voice is soft, full of admiration.

“Different approach. Same goal.” He glances at me, eyes dark.

He finishes the download and secures the equipment. I wait, heart pounding, hoping he’ll finally close the distance and give in.

“Ready for the next stop?” he asks, voice low and rough, and I see the question in his eyes—see the promise of everything we could be, if only he’ll let himself want it enough.

I nod, pulse thrumming, and follow him deeper into the wild, every step a silent dare: come and get me.

We hike to two more monitoring stations, the rhythm of our day settling into a kind of intimate choreography.

Caleb works with focus and competence, and I find myself anticipating his needs before he asks—handing him tools, steadying equipment, brushing dirt from his shoulder with a touch that lingers longer than necessary.

The miles pass beneath our boots, every step winding the tension between us tighter, every shared laugh or accidental touch another spark in the dry tinder of want.

At the final station, I steady the ladder while he climbs, his body outlined against the sky, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. I can’t help but watch how he moves—confident, strong, and utterly in control.

When he descends, I’m hyperaware of the nearness of his body, the heat radiating from him, the way his fingers brush mine as he closes the equipment case.

“That should do it.” His voice is low, rougher than before. “Last one.”

“Back to the cabin?” My voice is breathier than I intend, hope and hunger tangled in every syllable.

He shakes his head, a glint in his eyes. “One more stop.” He gestures to a narrow, hidden path. “Need to check the creek. Storm might’ve changed the flow.”

The new trail is barely a trail, forcing us to walk close together. Wet leaves and slick mud make every step a gamble, and Caleb’s hand finds my waist more than once, steadying, guiding, each touch sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core.

His palm lingers, thumb stroking the bare skin exposed above my waistband, casual and possessive.

The sound of rushing water grows louder, the air thick with the scent of rain and moss and something sharper—anticipation, thick as fog. When we reach the creek, it’s transformed: a wild, churning force, swollen and dangerous.

Caleb frowns, pulling out his battered notebook, lips moving silently as he surveys the swollen creek.

His focus is absolute, but I barely register his words.

The world narrows to the roar of water, the cold spray misting my cheeks, the wild, living pulse of the current as it churns over rocks and fallen branches.

I edge closer, boots sinking into the spongy earth.

The air is sharp and electric, charged with the aftermath of the storm.

My heart beats faster, in sync with the rushing water.

I should be careful, but the wildness calls to something reckless inside me—the urge to see, feel, and get as close as possible.

A gust of wind lifts my hair, the scent of wet earth and pine filling my lungs. I take another step, boots squelching in the mud. The ground looks solid, but it shifts beneath my weight, a subtle give at first—a warning I ignore.

The next instant, the bank beneath my boot gives way with a sickening, silent lurch.

Time slows. My balance tips, arms windmilling, a startled gasp ripping from my throat.

The world tilts, the roar of the creek swelling in my ears, the cold spray biting my skin as I pitch forward, weightless for a heartbeat.

Mud slides beneath my feet. There’s nothing but the wild, churning depths below, but then strong hands clamp around my belt, yanking me back from the brink.

My body collides with solid muscle, the world righting itself in a dizzying rush as Caleb hauls me against his chest, his grip bruising, desperate, utterly unyielding.

We stumble together, his momentum carrying us several steps back until his spine hits a tree, anchoring us both, his arms locked tight around me.

My breath comes in ragged bursts, my heart thundering in my ears, the afterimage of the drop still burning behind my eyes. Caleb’s chest heaves against my back, the heat of his body searing through my clothes, his hold fierce and unbreakable—a living barrier between me and the wild.

“That was reckless.” His breath is hot against my ear, rough with adrenaline and something darker. His voice vibrates through my bones, more growl than words. “You scared the hell out of me.”