Page 11 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)
Kitchen Confidential
T he text message arrives as I'm halfway through my second cup of coffee, curled in the window seat of my lodge room, watching early morning mist rise from the mountains.
My fingers hover over the screen. This is crossing yet another line in a rapidly disappearing professional boundary.
A food critic doesn't take cooking lessons from her subject. She doesn't spend days exploring his hometown. She certainly doesn't sleep with him repeatedly, and she absolutely never allows him to bind her hands and take control during sex.
The Executioner would never.
But Audrey—the woman who felt something crack open inside her on that mountain yesterday—types back: "I'll be there."
Research.
That's my paper-thin justification as I select a casual and flattering outfit—dark jeans that hug my curves and a soft cashmere sweater in deep forest green. I tell myself the extra time spent on my makeup and hair is merely a professional presentation.
The lies I tell myself are becoming more elaborate by the day.
Timberline looks different in the afternoon light—softer, more intimate, without the evening bustle.
The "CLOSED" sign hangs on the door but swings open at my touch. The dining room sits in hushed expectation, chairs inverted atop tables, sunlight streaming through the massive windows painting golden patterns across the hardwood floors.
"Back here." Hunter's voice calls from the kitchen.
I follow the sound, my heels clicking against the polished concrete floors of the back hallway. The professional kitchen gleams with stainless steel precision, knives aligned on magnetic strips, and copper pots hanging in size order above a massive range.
Hunter stands at a central prep island, a white apron tied over a simple black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders. His forearms flex as he fillets a fish with hypnotic efficiency, each movement precise and controlled.
"You came." He glances up, a smile warming his features.
"I was intrigued." I set my purse on a stool, suddenly aware of how out of place my city-self appears in this temple of culinary creation. "Though I should warn you—my cooking skills are limited to reheating takeout."
"Perfect." His grin widens. "Blank slate. No bad habits to unlearn."
He washes his hands, dries them on a towel tucked into his apron, and approaches. When he leans in to kiss me, it feels natural, as if we've been doing this for years rather than days. His lips taste faintly of something herbal and bright—he's been tasting as he works.
"My grandfather's special mountain trout." He gestures to the pristine fillets. "Caught this morning by Hank Turner up at Crystal Lake. Still swimming at dawn."
The fish gleams pearlescent under the professional lighting, its flesh the pale pink of sunrise. Next to it, small piles of ingredients wait in precise grouping—fresh herbs, mushrooms, tiny potatoes with soil still clinging to their skins.
"First rule of cooking— mise en place. " He hands me an apron. "Everything in its place before you begin."
The apron smells of laundry soap and faintly of him. I tie it around my waist, ready to play student to his teacher.
"We'll start with the herbs." He guides me to a cutting board. "Hold the knife like this."
His hand covers mine, adjusting my grip on the chef's knife. His chest presses against my back, warm and solid. This position is ostensibly instructional, but the brush of his breath against my ear suggests other intentions.
"Rock the blade, don't chop." He demonstrates, our hands moving in unison. "Let the knife do the work."
The herbs release their fragrance as we cut—thyme, dill, chervil—creating an aromatic cloud that tingles in my nose and clings to my fingers. When he steps away to check something on the stove, I feel the absence of his heat like a sudden chill.
"What's next?" I ask, oddly proud of my neatly minced herbs.
"Mushrooms." He places a basket of tiny golden chanterelles before me. "These grow on the north side of Widow's Peak. I harvested them last week."
I learn to clean them with a small brush rather than water and slice them to preserve their delicate texture.
Hunter moves around the kitchen with the grace of a dancer, effortlessly reaching for ingredients and adjusting the heat, all while maintaining a running commentary on his grandfather's techniques.
"He believed food should taste of place." Hunter measures out a splash of amber liquid. "This is local honey mead. The Johnsons have kept bees here for four generations."
Everything connects to story, to history, to the mountains surrounding us. This isn't cooking as I've experienced it in the world's top restaurants—technical, competitive, designed to impress. This is cooking as communion with place, with memory, with legacy.
"Taste." He holds out a spoon with a small amount of sauce, his other hand cupped beneath to catch any drips.
I lean forward, lips parting. The flavor blooms across my tongue—butter richness balanced with herbal brightness and the subtle sweetness of the mead. My eyes close involuntarily.
"Good?" His voice has dropped half an octave.
"Incredible." I open my eyes to find him watching me with intense focus.
"Your turn." He hands me the wooden spoon. "Stir while I prep the garnish."
We move around each other in the spacious kitchen. He shows me how to test the potatoes with the tip of a knife, how to crisp the trout skin to a perfect golden brown, and how to plate with an artist's eye for composition.
"Final touch." He reaches past me for a jar of vibrant orange roe. "Wild steelhead caviar from the river that runs through town."
With tweezers, he places tiny dots of the glistening eggs around our plates. The completed dishes look like edible landscapes—the trout nestled on herb-flecked potatoes, surrounded by golden mushrooms, and the bright pops of roe. Sauce is swirled like a mountain stream around the perimeter.
"Beautiful." I'm genuinely impressed by the dish and how much I've enjoyed creating it.
Without thinking, I pull out my phone, capturing the perfect composition from several angles. The light catches the glistening trout skin, the vibrant orange roe, and the delicate herbs—a masterpiece that deserves documentation.
"For your memory collection?" Hunter asks, looking pleased by my appreciation.
"Something like that." I take one final shot that captures the dish with the mountains visible through the window behind it—place and plate in perfect harmony.
"Not done yet." Hunter disappears into the wine room, returning with a dust-covered bottle. "2010 Kistler Chardonnay. Been saving it for a special occasion."
He uncorks the bottle, pouring golden liquid into crystal stems that catch the late afternoon light streaming through the windows.
"To your first Timberline creation." He raises his glass.
We carry our plates and wine to a small chef's table in the corner of the kitchen—an intimate space where the staff might taste new dishes or hold meetings.
The first bite nearly brings tears to my eyes. Not because of technical perfection, though it has that in abundance. But because I can taste the mountain streams, the forest floor, and the history of this place in every mouthful.
This is what I've been missing in all those sterile, perfect restaurants I've eviscerated in print.
Soul.
Connection.
Purpose beyond accolades.
"You're quiet." Hunter watches me over the rim of his wineglass.
"It's perfect." The words feel inadequate. "I've eaten in the best restaurants in the world, and this is..." I stop, realizing my mistake.
His eyebrow lifts. "You've eaten in the best restaurants in the world?"
Heat floods my face. "I mean, when I can. For special occasions." The lie tastes bitter compared to the perfect food on my plate.
He accepts this with a nod, but something flickers in his eyes—doubt, perhaps. I change the subject quickly.
"Tell me more about your grandfather. He taught you to make this dish?"
The tension dissipates as Hunter shares stories of his childhood in these mountains, learning to forage and fish alongside the old man who raised him. As the sun sets beyond the windows, we finish the wine, and Hunter clears our plates despite my offer to help.
"Guest privilege." He stacks them in the industrial dishwasher. "Besides, I like watching you enjoy the view."
I stand at the massive windows, watching Alpenglow—a beautiful optical phenomenon that paints the mountaintops in shades of pink and gold opposite the sun. The beauty of this place still takes me aback. It is so different from my usual urban haunts, with their concrete and neon signs.
"Thank you for coming today." Strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, and Hunter's lips find the sensitive spot below my ear.
"Thank you for inviting me." I lean against his chest, allowing myself this moment of perfect contentment.
"I have ulterior motives." His hands slide beneath the hem of my sweater, warm against my skin.
"Do you?" I turn in his arms, finding his eyes darkened with intent.
"I've been thinking about you in my kitchen since you walked in." His thumb traces my lower lip. "The way you looked, concentrating on cutting those herbs. The little sound you made when you tasted the sauce."
Heat pools low in my belly, desire flaring quickly after the slow burn of our cooking session. My hands find the solid planes of his chest through his t-shirt.
"Thinking about me, how, exactly?" My voice emerges huskier than intended.
Instead of answering, he lifts me in one fluid motion, setting me on the edge of the prep table. His mouth claims mine with a hunger that has nothing to do with food, tongue teasing, teeth grazing my lower lip in a way that draws a gasp from deep in my throat.
My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. The kitchen, with its gleaming surfaces and precise tools, recedes into the background, reduced to a backdrop for this consuming need that's built between us.