Page 8 of Trapped with the Forest Ranger (Angel’s Peak #5)

Water streams off me—hair plastered to my scalp, jacket clinging like a second skin. I’m soaked to the bone, shivering, half-mad with cold and something far more dangerous.

But he’s worse.

Caleb stands in the middle of the cabin like some feral deity summoned by thunder, his shirt molded to his chest like wet paint.

Every ridge, every defined edge of muscle etched in high-def torment.

Pecs. Abs. Veins that snake down thick forearms made for lifting, gripping, holding someone in place while they come undone.

Jesus.

He looks like wrath sculpted in flesh. Like sin carved from stone and left to weather in the wild.

And I want to climb him. Wrap myself around him like ivy and beg to be torn apart.

A violent shiver racks me. Not just from the cold this time.

He notices. Of course he fucking does.

Caleb shrugs off his soaked jacket, muscles rippling like a warning. Then grabs a blanket from the shelf and tosses it toward me without a word.

“You’re soaked.”

No shit, Ranger Rude and Repressed. But sure—let’s pretend like this is about weather.

I catch the blanket, fingers trembling, and wrap it around my body like armor. As if wool can protect me from the hunger burning low and deep. As if I’m not seconds from combusting.

Then his hands go to the hem of his shirt.

Oh God.

He peels it off in one smooth pull—water sluicing down his torso, catching on the curve of his chest, the dip of his stomach, the line of a scar slicing across his side like a memory of fire.

And I break.

My mouth actually drops open. Like a damn cartoon character. Like I’ve never seen a shirtless man before in my life.

Holy hell.

He’s not just ripped—he’s ruinous. Like a Roman statue got tired of being admired and decided to learn how to throw a woman over his shoulder and wreck her worldview instead.

My hands twitch with the need to touch. To trace the cut of his hips. To map every scar with my tongue and learn the story of his body through taste and sweat and surrender. I want to fall to my knees in front of him and offer everything—breath, restraint, control—and watch his face as I do it.

Lightning flares outside, blinding for a split second. His silhouette glows sharp and wild—jaw clenched, hair damp and curling at the nape, eyes locked on mine like he hears every single thought I shouldn’t be thinking.

Thunder answers—low, rolling, obscene.

The room smells like smoke, pine, ozone, and him. The air is thick with it. With us.

I can’t look away.

Don’t want to.

Because if he touches me now—if he takes even one step forward—I’ll burn alive.

And I’ll beg for it.

His gaze lifts to mine, slow and deliberate, like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t know I had. And just like that, the air in the shelter shifts—thick with heat, with want, with something neither of us is saying.

“You’re staring.” His voice is low. Rough. The kind of sound that curls around your spine and whispers don’t stop.

“You’re not exactly easy to look away from.”

The words leave my mouth before I can catch them. Honest. Raw. Soaked-through-and-horny truth with no filter and even less shame.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flirt. Just watches me.

And it does feel like watching—like I’m under a lens, like he’s studying every flicker of my breath, every tremble I try to hide. His eyes stay locked on mine, unreadable and steady, until they flick—just once—down to my mouth.

Oh.

Oh, hell.

I feel it. A jolt, pure and physical, snapping through me like lightning striking too close to home. The kind of tension that hums beneath the skin. Dangerous. Addictive.

One more look. One more breath.

And I’m going to do something reckless.

Something irrevocable.

And he’s either going to stop me.

Or help me come apart in his hands.

Honestly, either would be fine.

Thunder cracks directly overhead—loud enough to rattle the walls, shake the floor, send my pulse into overdrive.

I flinch. More from the break in the moment than the sound itself.

My body moves before I think—closer to him.

Seeking warmth. Grounding. Shelter in the form of his impossible body and maddening restraint.

He doesn’t step back. Doesn’t reach for me either. Just stands there, rain-slick and bare-chested, eyes burning with something I can’t name, chest rising in slow, even rhythm.

Like he’s unaffected.

Like he didn’t just watch me fall halfway in lust with him in real time.

The tension lingers. Still thick. Still electric. But the spell has cracked around the edges.

The rain pours harder. The sky growls above us.

And I grab for the nearest excuse. Anything to get my hands to stop shaking and my brain to start pretending this isn’t what it is.

“Storms scared me when I was a kid,” I blurt. Too fast. Too bright. My voice is a brittle thing between us. “My dad would make me count the seconds between lightning and thunder. Said if I understood it, I wouldn’t be afraid.”

I look anywhere but at him. At the wall. The blanket. My own damn hands.

Because I was this close to kissing him.

Caleb doesn’t speak right away. Just watches me, something softer flickering behind that guarded expression.

“Smart man.”

“He was.” The answer slips out more raw than I expect.

My throat tightens. Emotion sneaks up on me like the cold had earlier—sudden, uninvited, impossible to ignore.

I look away, pretending to study the rivulets of water racing down the windowpane.

“That’s why this project matters. It’s not just about the photographs. ”

When I glance back at him, his gaze is steady. Grounding. Not just interested—listening.

“What is it about? ”

“Finishing what he started.” I swallow hard. “He spent thirty years documenting predatory birds—one perfect photo of each species found in North America. The golden eagle was the one that got away. His white whale.”

"You mentioned that." A ghost of a smile pulls at the corner of Caleb’s mouth. “You promised to get it for him.”

“I did.” The words come out quiet. “He passed two years ago. And I told myself I’d finish the collection. Complete his work. Even if I had to chase a storm across a mountain to do it.”

The rain drums harder, wind whistling through the gaps in the shelter’s seams, but in here it’s oddly still. Not warm—but no longer cold either.

“You get it yet?” Caleb asks.

“Not yet,” I murmur. “But I’m close. I can feel it.”

He nods, gaze distant for a beat. Then: “He’d be proud.”

I blink.

Simple words. But they hit harder than anything I expected.

“Thanks,” I whisper, throat tightening again—but not from sadness this time. “That means more than you know.”

We fall into silence again, but it’s different now. No longer charged with heat or awkwardness, but something quieter. He slides down to sit on the bench, resting his elbows on his knees, and I take the other end, careful to leave space between us this time.

He passes me the lantern, and for a moment our fingers brush—cool skin to warm, steady hands to jittery ones.

But this time, I don’t mistake the contact for an invitation.

This time, I just breathe in the quiet. And let it settle.

"How did your father die?" he asks.

"Heart attack. He was on a shoot in Wyoming. By the time I got there..." I swallow hard. "Photography was our connection. After my parents divorced, weekends with Dad meant hiking with cameras, chasing wildlife."

"That's why you pushed on despite the storm."

"Yeah." I smile ruefully. "Dad always said the best shots come when other photographers have packed up and gone home."

Another shiver runs through me, more pronounced this time.

Without comment, Caleb shifts closer, hesitantly placing his arm around my shoulders.

The gesture is awkward, tentative, as though he's forgotten how human contact works.

But his body radiates heat, and I find myself leaning into his warmth.

"Your turn." I glance up at him, suddenly aware of our proximity, the weight of his arm, the subtle scent of pine and rain that clings to him. "Why did you leave firefighting?"

His body tenses, but he doesn't withdraw. "Long story."

"We've got time." I gesture to the storm outside. "Unless you have somewhere pressing to be."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips, there and gone. He's silent for so long, I think he won't answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, as if sharing a confidence he's held close for years.

"Sometimes you can do everything right and still lose."

The weight of unsaid words hangs between us. I wait, sensing there's more.

“I quit after Carson Ridge.” His voice is low, flat—but his jaw flexes like the memory still draws blood.

I go still. Understanding slams into me like a falling tree.

“Caleb…”

“Like I said. Long story.”

His gaze cuts away, evasive. But his arm doesn’t move.

Doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t shut down.

And that—God. That matters.

It feels like the first fault line in the fortress he’s built around himself. A hairline crack in all that control. He let me in, just a sliver, and it feels more intimate than anything he could’ve said out loud.

My throat closes around the ache. The gratitude. The overwhelming need to press my palm against his chest and ask—Who hurt you? Who left you bleeding and decided you had to survive alone?

But I don’t.

Because this? Him offering without demand, without defense?

That’s sacred ground. And I won’t stomp through it just because I’m desperate for more.

So I lean into him. Rest my head against his shoulder.

Say nothing.

His arm tightens.

Just a little. A fraction.

But I feel it.

Feel it like a live current sparking beneath my skin, like a promise without words. My body goes hot and sharp and acutely aware—of the rise and fall of his chest, the scent of pine and storm and him, the heavy press of his thigh against mine.

Outside, thunder mutters low, a belly-deep growl retreating toward the horizon.

But in here, the storm is alive and well—trapped between our bodies, wound tight and waiting.