Page 8 of His Wild Desire

No matter how hard I try to lose myself in the book, the words just won't stick. My mind is like an unruly child, refusing to focus and instead spiraling down a rabbit hole of distracting thoughts.

Mainly thoughts of Caleb and that mind-blowing kiss.

I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, the insistence of his tongue stroking deep. Just the memory has my pulse kicking up a notch, a telltale flush creeping up my chest.

Scowling, I snap the book shut with more force than necessary. I can't for the life of me fathom why he pulled away like that—one minute, we were tangled in each other's arms; the next, he was retreating into his infuriatingly stoic mountain man shell.

Well, whatever. If he wants to be an emotionally constipated caveman, that's his prerogative. I have bigger things to worry about than some rough-and-tumble caveman's mixed signals.

Like my actual job, for starters.

With a frustrated huff, I yank my phone from my pocket again, unsurprised when the screen remains stubbornly dark. No signal, no email access, no way to check in with the office. Just the thought of how much is piling up in my absence—unanswered emails, looming deadlines, that massive Zephyr campaign proposal—has my chest constricting with anxiety.

This little trip was only supposed to be a quick weekend reset—a chance to decompress and regain my focus before diving back into the daily grind with renewed determination. But now I'm stranded here, utterly disconnected, with zero control over the chaos I can only assume is unfolding without me.

What if Tanner drops the ball on the Zephyr pitch? The Wilsons are old-money, high-society clients who expect nothing less than perfection. If we fumble this one, it could be a career-ender for sure.

And let's not even talk about the inevitable barrage of snide comments from my mother when she hears I've been incommunicado for days. She'll take immense pleasure in reminding me yet again how irresponsible I am, how I'll never be able to handle real responsibility if I can't even answer my phone for a few measly days.

The familiar swell of inadequacy is a leaden weight in my gut. No matter how successful I become, I'll never be enough in my family's eyes. Not unless I abandon my own dreams to settle down with the appropriate rich husband and pop out the requisite 2.5 kids while simultaneously climbing the corporate ladder all the way to the damn top.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting off an impending tension headache. This is exactly why I needed to get away in the first place—to avoid imploding under the immense pressures I face on a daily basis.

Screw it. Maybe if I wander around a bit, I can find a decent signal. I'll just shoot off a few emails, check in with the team, and reassure them I'm still calling the shots. Then, I can go back to enjoying my little rustic staycation without the nagging anxiety.

Decision made, I struggle upright and limp toward the cabin's entrance, wincing with every jolting step. My tender ankle is throbbing in protest, but I stubbornly grit my teeth against the ache. I'll be damned if I let a little sprain stop me. I'm a woman of action, dammit, not some wilting damsel content to twiddle her thumbs and wait for a big, strong man to swoop in and save the day.

I pause in the open doorway, squinting against the bright sunlight as I survey my surroundings. Dense evergreens blanket the landscape in every direction, their earthy scent thick and heady in the crisp mountain air. A narrow, winding trail snakes away from the cabin's clearing, quickly swallowed by the shadowed tree line.

Perfect. A path means civilization at some point, right? And where there's civilization, there's cell service.

My eyes catch on a sturdy-looking branch lying discarded beside the trail. I bend with a grunt and snag it, testing the solid weight in my grip before using it as an improvised cane. If Caleb wants me to channel my inner nature girl, fine. I'll just add a little accessory.

With a decisive nod, I set off down the trail, leaning on my makeshift cane with every other lurching step. The trees quickly close in on either side, their dense canopy filtering the sunlight into slanted beams that dapple the path in front of me. The damp, organic scent of crushed pine needles envelops me with every inhale.

My phone is still a lifeless brick in my grip. I pause and lift it skyward, craning my neck as I search fruitlessly for even the barest hint of a signal bar.

"Come on," I mutter, giving the device a vigorous shake like that will somehow jumpstart a connection. "Work with me here."

I'm so engrossed in my struggle that I don't hear the telltale burble of flowing water until it's nearly on top of me. My head swivels at the unexpected sound, eyes widening as the trail deposits me in a small, sunlit clearing.

A narrow creek gurgles through the center of the grassy space, its banks lined with moss-covered stones and wildflowers nodding in the occasional breeze. The clear, rippling water looks inviting as it meanders through the clearing before disappearing into the shadowed forest again.

Unable to resist, I abandon my quest for cell service and instead limp toward the creek, sinking gratefully onto a large, flat boulder at its edge. It isn’t until I’m settled that I sense a sudden splash of movement in my periphery.

I tense, instinctively gripping my makeshift cane, then immediately release the breath I'm holding. It's Caleb, standing waist-deep in the center of the creek with his back to me. Rivulets of water stream over those broad, muscular shoulders and down the deep grooves of his spine. As he moves, I realize he’s completely nude.

My mouth goes instantly dry at the sight.

Captivated, I watch in silence as he ducks beneath the surface. When he resurfaces a moment later, I can't suppress the tiny gasp that escapes my lips.

Sweet mercy.

His chestnut hair is slicked back from that rugged, bearded face, the wet strands glistening against the sharp angles of his chiseled jaw and cheekbones. Crystalline beads of water cling to the bronze contours of his skin, tracing scorching paths over the flexing cords of his neck, the rippling expanse of his back and shoulders, his... well, everywhere, really.

He's utter masculine perfection given form.

I know I should look away, give the mountain man his privacy, but I'm utterly transfixed.

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