Page 6 of His Wild Desire

I roll my eyes at the smug tone, even as a small smile tugs at my lips. For all his rough edges, I have to admit—Caleb has a certain roguish charm when he isn't being a completely insufferable ass.

"Speaking of fine cuisine..." I drawl, scooping up another bite of egg. "What's the most memorable meal you've ever had?"

He considers the question for a moment, those eyes crinkling in thought.

"Gotta be the elk backstrap I bagged on my twenty-first birthday," he replies at last. "Packed it in over three days, made camp by the river, slow-grilled it over the coals with just some wild herbs and a nice cabernet I'd hauled in."

A reminiscent grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, those vivid blue eyes seeming to gaze inward at the memory. I can't help picturing it—the rugged mountain man, silhouetted against a breathtaking alpine vista as he tends to his campfire feast, a Mason jar sweating beside the dancing flames. The image is... surprisingly romantic.

I shake myself out of the unbidden reverie, refocusing on Caleb's expectant expression. Clearly, it's my turn to reveal my own fine dining experience.

"Well, mine was this seven-course tasting menu at the three-Michelin star restaurant in the Plaza," I begin, unable to repress a smug grin of my own. "Each plate was a work of art, from the sashimi and caviar amuse to the butter-poached tenderloin and foie gras. Of course, it was all perfectly paired with a sommelier-selected vintage from their five-thousand-bottle cellar and served in a private dining room draped in white Italian silk..."

My voice trails off at Caleb's utterly blank look, clearly lost somewhere around the mention of a Michelin.

"You're fuckin' with me, right?" he mutters, shaking his head in patent disbelief. "All that fuss over some food that probably didn't fill you up?"

I bristle at his dismissive tone, my spine stiffening defensively. "It's not just about stuffing your face," I shoot back hotly. "It's about the artistry, the presentation, the wine pairings, the ambiance..."

My voice trails off as I realize I've already lost him.

I huff out an exasperated breath, raking my fingers through my tangled bedhead in frustration. "You know what, forget it. I can't expect someone who lives in the wilderness and eats Bambi's relatives to understand."

"Damn straight you can't," he rumbles, unperturbed by my dig at his rustic lifestyle. "But that's okay, princess. We'll make a mountain woman outta you in no time."

After breakfast, I do my best to handle my morning necessities, as embarrassing as it is in such close quarters with this hot mountain man. I manage to get dressed in my clothes from yesterday, my cheeks flushing as I catch Caleb's gaze lingering a little too long on the curves accentuated by my form-fitting hiking attire.

I wonder what I'm going to do all day, stuck in this rustic cabin with no cell service or internet connection to occupy me. But Caleb seems to have other plans.

Once we're both dressed and ready, he scoops me up in one effortless movement before I can so much as squeak a protest. I instinctively latch onto his shoulders for balance as he carries me toward the door.

"Caleb! What are you doing?" I sputter, clutching his warm skin as he nudges the door open with one booted foot.

"Like I said, you're gonna be here for a couple of days," he reminds me, his deep voice rumbling against my chest from our proximity. "Which means it's time I teach you how we do things out here."

He deposits me on a battered wooden bench just outside the cabin's entrance, the warm late-morning sunlight instantly bathing my face. Stretching out my tender ankle with a wince, I shoot him a pointed glower.

"And just what kind of 'schooling' did you have in mind?"

He crouches before me, reaching for the battered old tin coffee pot beside the bench. My brow furrows as he upends it to reveal a pile of straw and twigs.

"Fire's the first lesson for any greenhorn out here in the wild," he explains, his lips curved in a wry smirk as my gaze flies up to his in consternation. "Don't give me that look, princess. You really want to survive more than one night in these mountains, you better learn how to make one."

With that, he fishes an ancient-looking firestarter kit from his pocket, placing it on the bench beside me before rising to lean back against the cabin, arms folded across that bare, muscular chest.

"Have at it," he drawls, eyes dancing with undisguised amusement at my obvious discomfort. "Just a little flint and tinder. No biggie, even for a city girl like you."

He arches one challenging brow, and I feel a sudden, inexplicable urge to prove myself to this arrogant, rugged man. Squaring my jaw, I snatch up the archaic fire kit, determination blazing in my eyes.

But no matter how many times Caleb patiently walks me through the process—strike the flint, cradle the sparks, gently blow life into the glowing ember—the damned twigs stubbornly refuse to ignite. My hair is a disheveled mess, strands sticking to the sheen of sweat on my forehead, and I'm pretty sure there's a smudge of ash streaked across one cheek. But I refuse to give up, my teeth gritted in grim determination.

"Breathe out, not in," Caleb's deep voice rumbles beside me, far too close for comfort. "Blow too hard, and you'll smother the tinder."

His rough hand settles over mine, guiding it into a gentle cupping motion around the smoldering straw. I shiver involuntarily at the calloused heat of his palm, my skin prickling in awareness.

"There you go," he murmurs, his beard tickling my neck. "Easy, darlin'. You got this."

I can feel the heat of his hard body radiating against my side, the clean, earthy musk of him surrounding me in a heady cloud. My lungs burn from the exertion as I follow the steady rhythm of his coaching, forcing air in a gentle stream over the glowing embers. I watch, mesmerized, as the tiny flame finally flickers to life, licking hungrily at the dry tinder.

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