Page 4 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

By the time we 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. Sh e’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.

He scribbles in a weather log or field journal or whatever rugged survivalists write in, posture relaxed, boots planted wide, concentration etched into every hard line of his face.

I scroll through old photos, pretending to work, pretending I’m not hyperaware of every shift of his body, every creak of the chair beneath his weight.

The fire crackles low.

The storm howls against the eaves.

And the cabin… it changes.

Not romantic. No.

But warm.

Settled.

Like this place—this strange, isolated world we’ve stumbled into—has its own gravity.

God help me, I’m starting to like the quiet.

As dusk crawls across the cabin and settles in like a blanket, my stomach betrays me loudly. The growl ricochets off the log walls, embarrassing and impossible to ignore. I glance toward the kitchenette. Then at Caleb.

He hasn’t moved from his desk. Still scribbling away like he’s single-handedly solving climate change, war, and the meaning of life with nothing but a dull pencil and sheer willpower.

That brow is furrowed in concentration, lips pressed into a thin line, and those maddening hands—those hands—grip the pen with quiet command.

I think about asking if he’s hungry. Maybe offer to cook something. Though my idea of cooking mostly involves microwave buttons and an emotional commitment to crackers, cheese, and shame. But before I can embarrass myself further, he shifts.

Chair scrapes back. He stands.

And stretches.

Arms up. Shirt rides up. Muscles ripple under flannel, the hem lifting just enough to flash skin—tan, tight, sinfully cut. My brain short-circuits. All thoughts deleted. Replaced by a mental slideshow titled Things I Could Do to That Torso.

“Hungry?” he asks, like he didn’t just unleash an erotic apocalypse on my nervous system.

“Starving.” My answer’s too quick, too high, like I’m auditioning for a game show instead of trying not to combust.

He moves to the fridge with that same quiet efficiency that’s starting to undo me, one steady footfall at a time.

Pulls out a handful of vegetables, a container of cooked rice, a carton of eggs.

His movements are exact, practiced. There’s a plan forming in his head, and I watch it play out in real time.

He grabs a chef’s knife and starts chopping like it’s second nature. Confident. Fluid. Precise. I can’t help but wonder what else those hands have learned to master.

“Need an assistant chef?” I offer, inching closer, helpless against the magnetic pull of his space.

“No.”

One word. No glance. Just the firm brush-off of a man who knows how to work alone.

Onions hit the hot pan, followed by garlic, oil, and something spicy that bites at the back of my throat and settles lower—warm and wicked. The scent wraps around me like temptation in steam form.

“Almost done,” he adds, tossing chopped peppers like he’s conducting an orchestra made of heat and hunger .

Of course, he’s almost done. Of course, he cooks like this. Methodical. Silent. Focused. Like he’s locked in a staring contest with the skillet and refuses to blink until he’s won.

I lean back against the counter, useless and captivated, trying to look anywhere but at his forearms flexing with each flick of the wrist.

But I fail. Spectacularly.

And when he reaches for the soy sauce, tilts the pan, and gives it a controlled shake that sends the scent of toasted sesame and pure masculine competence into the air—I swear to God, I nearly moan.

Someone save me. Or don’t. Honestly, I’m fine dying like this.

When he sets the plate in front of me a few minutes later, I nearly weep. It’s just vegetables and rice, but it smells like five-star comfort food. Like warmth and muscle memory and hands that build and nourish in equal measure. The scent alone could melt resolve.

“This looks amazing,” I breathe, already half-moaning as I inhale the steam curling off the plate. “I wasn’t expecting gourmet mountain cuisine.”

“It’s just food.” His voice is low, unbothered. But there’s a flicker—barely there—in the corners of his mouth. Pride, betrayed for just a second.

I take the first bite, and my brain short-circuits. Garlic and ginger sing at the edges. Something smoky curls at the back of my tongue. A hit of spice lingers low, like a secret. My eyes flutter closed, pleasure sinking deep.

“This is…” I shake my head, reverent. “Culinary foreplay. Honestly. Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

He pauses, just long enough to register. “My crew. Hotshots. We rotated cooking duties at base camp.”

Hotshots.

The word lands like a match tossed on dry brush. Firefighters. Elite ones. Suddenly the quiet control, the lethal grace, the intensity that clings to him like smoke—they all make sense.

I don’t push. Not yet.

“That explains the practical skills,” I say lightly, chasing the thought of him in fire gear, soot-streaked and adrenaline-laced, hauling people from the flames.

He just nods. Eyes down. Focused on his food like it’s safer than me.

Then I blow it.

“I saw a newspaper article earlier.” The words tumble out like spilled wine—too fast, impossible to clean up. “About your crew. Mountain fire. You saved?—”

“You went through my things?”

The shift is instant. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just—still. The kind of still that makes your skin tighten, because something primal has entered the room. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t move. Just freezes, like a blade held breath-close.

“No—well, not exactly,” I fumble, heart thudding. “The chest under your desk was open. The clipping was right there. I didn’t dig. I was just curious…”

His eyes finally lift. Green and unreadable. “Curiosity doesn’t justify invading my privacy.”

The air goes razor thin. His voice isn’t loud, but it hums with something restrained and dangerous. Not rage. Worse. Disappointment.

Silence stretches. Long enough for my breath to feel loud in my own ears. My skin prickles.

“You’re right.” My voice is soft. Steady. “I’m sorry.” I set my fork down, the clink of metal on ceramic sharper than it should be. “I shouldn’t have looked. Not without permission. ”

And I mean it. Every word. But I don’t look away. Not this time.

Because beneath the apology, something else pulses—connection. Delicate. Frayed at the edges. And still holding.

He studies me for a long moment, jaw tight, lips parted just slightly like the words are there, lodged somewhere between memory and restraint. Muscles tick in his cheek. He looks like a man walking barefoot across broken glass—aware of every sharp edge, every misstep waiting to cut.

Then, finally, a breath. A soft exhale that sounds like surrender.

“It was the Carson Ridge Fire. 2018.” His voice is rough, stripped bare. “We got twelve hikers out before the fire jumped the containment line.”

I watch him in profile, the cut of his jaw in the low cabin light, the flicker of something old and raw in his eyes.

“Twelve hikers rescued. Three firefighters injured. One fatality.” My voice is quiet, careful. But it still lands like a match in dry brush.

His jaw flexes, and for a second, I want to bite my tongue. Take it back. Let him keep the silence he’s made into armor.

“You were the one who went back in, weren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just lets the moment stretch until I feel it hum beneath my skin. Then he nods once. Slow. Heavy.

I should stop. I know I should stop. Let him have this boundary. Let him change the subject.

But I don’t. Because he didn’t shut me out. Because the ache behind his eyes is too human to ignore.

“What happened?”

He turns his head and looks at me. Really looks. And what I see in his eyes isn’t just memory—it’s flame. Pain. Guilt. Fierce, relentless love. All braided together in a knot he doesn’t know how to untangle.

“We’d already pulled everyone out,” he says. Each word is deliberate, like it costs him something. “Or thought we had. Then we got a call—a kid, separated from his family. Smoke thick as concrete. Fire jumping ridges like it was chasing ghosts.”

“You went in.”

He shrugs, like it was nothing. Like racing into hell was just another Tuesday. “Didn’t think. Just moved.”

But I see the way his hand curls into a fist against his thigh. The way his breath stutters—so slight, so controlled.

My throat closes. “And your teammate?”

A pause. And then he says it, flat and brutal.

“Didn’t make it.” He looks away, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

The room is so quiet, even the fire seems to hold its breath.