Page 1 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)

Steamy Encounter

Mountains stretch into forever, jagged peaks piercing a sky so deeply blue it seems artificial, like something from a travel brochure promising more than reality could possibly deliver.

But this view delivers .

I step out, the thin air immediately filling my lungs with something purer than I've breathed in years.

The late afternoon sun ignites the mountainsides, painting them in gold light that will too soon fade.

My phone buzzes in my pocket – my editor again, no doubt, demanding updates on a review I haven't even begun. I silence it without looking.

For the next week, I’d love to be just Audrey Tristan, tourist. Not Audrey Tristan, the food critic whose scathing reviews have earned me the industry nickname "The Executioner.

" Not the woman whose takedowns have closed three restaurants in the past year alone.

Just a woman on vacation who happens to be writing about her experiences.

That’s the lie I tell myself.

Sadly, every bit of that is true.

The thought should bring relief. Instead, my chest tightens with something like dread. When did I become someone who takes more pleasure in destruction than discovery?

The road winds another fifteen minutes before revealing The Haven at Angel's Peak, a sprawling timber and stone lodge that manages to look both imposing and welcoming against its mountain backdrop.

Two massive elk antler chandeliers frame the entrance, and somewhere a fire burns, the scent of woodsmoke mingling with pine.

"First time to Angel's Peak?" The valet takes my keys, his flannel shirt, and easy smile part of the carefully cultivated mountain aesthetic.

"Is it that obvious?" My city clothes and pristine luggage might as well be a neon sign.

He chuckles, breath fogging in the cooling air. "We get that look a lot. The first glimpse of the mountains tends to reset something in folks."

Inside, the lobby centers around a stone fireplace large enough to stand in, flames casting dancing shadows across wooden beams and leather furniture. A young woman at reception wears her flannel more formally, with a name tag reading "Emma."

"Welcome to The Haven, Ms. Tristan. We have you in our Mountain View Suite for seven nights." Her fingers fly across the keyboard. "I see you have a reservation for Timberline tomorrow evening as well."

I nod, maintaining the practiced pleasantness that reveals nothing of my purpose. "I've heard wonderful things."

"Chef Morgan creates magic in that kitchen." Pride brightens her voice. "Anything specific I should note for your dining preferences?"

"No allergies, no restrictions. I'd prefer to experience the chef's vision as intended."

The professional assessment slips out before I can stop it, but Emma just smiles wider. "You're in for a treat."

My room is on the fourth floor, cozy rather than opulent with its king-sized bed draped in a handmade quilt and large windows framing the darkening mountainscape.

I unpack methodically – notebook, laptop, the small kit of tools I use to assess portion sizes and temperatures without being obvious.

My camera disguised as a casual smartphone. The props of my profession.

Thunder rumbles in the distance. The forecast mentioned afternoon showers, but the speed with which clouds have gathered over the peaks suggests something more substantial brewing. Perfect weather for settling in with room service and research.

But my body aches from hours of driving, and the thought of the walls closing around me after a day confined in the car sends me back downstairs in search of fresh air before the storm hits.

"Any walking paths nearby?" I ask the concierge, a bearded man whose plaid shirt strains slightly across broad shoulders.

"The wildflower meadow trail loops around the property. About a mile total." He points toward French doors at the rear of the lobby. "You'll want to stick close, though. That storm's rolling in fast, and mountain weather doesn't mess around."

The path curves behind the lodge, winding through clusters of aspen trees whose leaves shiver silver in the quickening breeze. The air smells different now – metallic, charged with coming rain. Another rumble, closer this time. I should turn back.

Instead, I follow the path as it forks, curiosity pulling me toward a glass structure gleaming at the edge of the property. A greenhouse, its panels reflecting the churning gray clouds overhead.

The first fat drops of rain begin to fall as I reach the door. It swings open easily, unlocked. Warmth and humidity envelop me immediately, along with the heady perfume of herbs and earth.

This is no ordinary greenhouse – long wooden tables overflow with plants arranged with meticulous care. Herbs I recognize – rosemary, thyme, basil varieties – mingled with edible flowers and vegetables at various stages of growth.

Someone has created an exquisite culinary garden, the kind urban restaurants pay premium prices to maintain.

I move deeper into the space, fingers lightly brushing past purple basil, its scent releasing into the humid air.

Outside, rain now hammers against the glass, turning the world beyond into a watery blur.

Lightning flashes—an electric slash across the sky. Thunder crashes an instant later, so loud and close it punches through me. I flinch, pulse spiking. The storm is right above us now, turning the greenhouse into a cocoon of trembling glass and humid breath.

“We’re not supposed to have visitors back here.”

The voice cuts through the air behind me—low, rough, and so close it skates down my spine like the slide of a palm beneath my shirt. I spin, breath caught somewhere between ribs and throat.

He stands framed in the doorway, rain dripping from the edge of the roof behind him.

Tall. Too tall for the narrow frame, he ducks slightly as he steps in, his wet shirt clinging to shoulders broad enough to block out half the storm behind him.

Dark hair curls damply at his temples. A faint sheen of water slicks his throat.

Stubble traces the edge of a jawline sharp enough to draw blood.

But it’s his eyes that snare me—clear green-gold, like filtered sunlight through pine needles. Wild. Unsettling. And locked on me with a kind of quiet focus that turns the breath in my lungs to steam.

My mouth moves before my brain can catch up. “I—The door was open. I didn’t think anyone— The storm…”

“Caught you off guard?”

The corner of his mouth curves, just barely. That half-smile. Jesus.

“Mountain weather.” He moves past me, close enough that I catch the scent of him—rain, earth, something warm and mineral—and my stomach flips. “Zero to sixty in under a minute.”

He rolls up his sleeves, slow and efficient. Muscles flex beneath tanned skin as he rinses his hands in the basin, the motion simple, unhurried. Powerful. That body doesn’t belong behind a desk. It belongs outdoors. Or pressed against?—

I swallow hard, heat blooming low in my abdomen. Get a grip.

I gesture to the rows of vibrant green, trying not to stare at the veins flexing beneath his forearms. “This is… impressive. Do you work for the lodge?”

“Something like that.”

He reaches overhead, retrieving a dark bottle and two squat glasses from a shelf above the workbench. His shirt stretches across his back as he moves, rainwater still clinging to him in a way that makes it hard to look away.

“Since neither of us is going anywhere until this passes…” He glances toward the sheets of water blurring the world outside. “Might as well get comfortable. Bourbon?”

I should say no. Should thank him and head back to the lodge with whatever grace I can still gather.

But I nod.

He pours the amber liquid, catching the faint light like wildfire, and his fingers brush mine as he hands me the glass. Barely a touch. But it’s enough. A pulse of heat skims along my skin, sinking deep. I pretend not to notice. But I do. God, I do.

“To shelter.”

He lifts his glass. I mirror him, and the toast hums between us like a shared secret.

The bourbon goes down like liquid gold—sweet and smoky, and hot enough to make me exhale through my nose.

It sears a path down my throat, pooling low.

But it’s the way he watches me that really sets the fire: over the rim of his glass, eyes half-lidded, the faintest curve to his lips like he already knows exactly what I’m feeling.

No one has looked at me like that in longer than I want to admit. Not with heat and hunger, like this man. Not like I’m a puzzle they want to solve with their hands.

He sets his glass on the workbench, leaning against it. Casual, but every inch of him radiates heat and unspoken strength. His broad chest rises and falls, the damp shirt clinging as if it might never come off.

“What brings you to Angel’s Peak?” His voice is low, pulling me back from where my mind’s already drifting. “Not exactly on the tourist map.”

“Work. Sort of. A working vacation.” I grip the glass a little tighter.

The half-truth feels too light for the weight in the air.

“A change of scenery?”

I nod. “From New York. The restaurant scene there is…” I catch myself before I say cutthroat. “Intense.”

That glint in his eyes sharpens. A flicker of genuine interest behind the slow-burn flirtation.

“You’re in the industry?”

Danger flares hot and immediate—I never reveal my profession to subjects before a review.

“Adjacent,” I say, the lie smooth as satin. “Food writing, but not the glamorous kind. Technical stuff.”

Another flash cleaves the sky, lightning stark and white, exposing everything. The thunder crashes right on its heels, loud enough to shake the panes. The lights flicker—once, twice—then vanish, plunging us into velvet dark.

“Damn.” His voice comes from closer now. My pulse ticks faster. “Backup generator’ll kick in for the lodge, but we’re on a separate system out here.”

“Should we head back?”