Page 14 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)
Tables and chairs have been arranged across the expansive front lawn.
A makeshift outdoor kitchen occupies one corner, where I spot Hunter's tall frame directing a small army of volunteers.
He moves with the same controlled grace he shows in his professional kitchen, though dressed casually in jeans and a faded t-shirt bearing the logo of a local brewing festival.
I should leave. This is precisely the kind of community event that would make excellent color for my review, but I'm no longer pretending to be objective. Yet I find myself drawn forward, pulled by some need I can't quite name.
Hunter looks up as if sensing my presence. His face transforms, lighting with genuine pleasure that makes my chest ache.
"Audrey!" He crosses the lawn in long strides, wiping his hands on a towel tucked into his back pocket. "You found us."
"I heard about it in town." Not exactly a lie. "It seemed important."
"It is." He takes my hand, an easy gesture that feels alarmingly natural. "Mabel's is the heart of this town. Come on, I'll introduce you."
Before I can object, I'm being led through the gathering crowd.
Hunter's hand warm around mine. He introduces me to what feels like half the town's population—the mayor, the elementary school principal, local artisans, and shopkeepers.
To each, he says the same thing: "This is Audrey, a special friend of mine. "
The simple designation warms me even as guilt twists beneath. What would these smiling people think if they knew I was here to evaluate them, to judge their beloved hometown chef? That my word could potentially devastate the economic lifeline Hunter has helped create?
"Hunter Morgan, are you going to hog that lovely young woman all to yourself?" The voice rings with authority despite its age.
A tiny woman with silver hair twisted into a crown of braids approaches, leaning on a carved wooden cane. Despite her small stature, she exudes a commanding presence. People step aside automatically.
"Gram." Hunter's face softens with unmistakable love. "I was just coming to find you. This is Audrey."
"Eleanor Morgan." She offers a hand that feels like soft paper over bird bones but grips with surprising strength. Eyes identical to Hunter’s. She assess me with unnerving perception. "So you're what's had my grandson walking on air these past few days."
Heat rises to my cheeks. "I wouldn't say that."
"I would." Her laugh is unexpectedly rich for such a small frame. "Know how I can tell? He made his special wild blackberry compote this morning. He only does that when he's sweet on someone."
"Gram." Hunter's protest carries no real objection, a flush creeping up his neck.
"Hush, boy. Let me get acquainted with your girl." She loops her arm through mine, effectively separating me from Hunter. "Come help an old woman find a comfortable seat, and I'll tell you about the time Hunter decided to surprise me with breakfast in bed and set my kitchen curtains on fire."
Hunter groans but makes no move to stop her, returning to his cooking station with a backward glance that carries equal parts apology and affection.
Eleanor leads me to a table beneath a sprawling oak tree, regaling me with stories of Hunter's childhood exploits—his first disastrous attempts at cooking, his determination to master his grandfather's recipes, his teenage rebellion that took the form of attempting molecular gastronomy in their rustic kitchen.
"Nearly blew up the house trying to make some fancy foam," she chuckles. "His grandfather was furious. Not about the mess, mind you, but about wasting good ingredients on what he called 'cloud food.'"
I find myself laughing more than I have in years, charmed by her forthright manner and love for her grandson.
"He was always too serious," she continues, watching Hunter direct his volunteers. "Took everything to heart. Felt responsible for the whole world."
"He seems well-loved here," I observe, watching townspeople stop by his station, each receiving a moment of genuine attention despite his busy hands.
"This place is in his blood." Eleanor's gaze turns shrewd. "What about you, Audrey? What's in your blood?"
The question catches me off guard. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"Yes, you are." Her hand pats mine with surprising gentleness. "Everyone has something that drives them, defines them. Hunter has this place, these people. What do you have?"
The answer comes unbidden: "Words. Stories." I hesitate, then add, "Truth, I hope."
She nods as if I've confirmed something. "Good. He needs someone who understands truth. There's been too much deception in his life."
"You mean with his restaurant in Denver?" I ask carefully, wondering how much she knows.
Eleanor's eyes cloud with remembered anger. "That snake of a business partner—Garrett—was just the culmination. Hunter's always attracted people who want to use him." She leans closer, voice dropping. "Then his sous chef in Chicago stole his recipes and opened her own place."
She sighs, weathered hands folding in her lap.
"Garrett was the worst, though. Manipulated investors behind Hunter's back, changed suppliers to cheaper products without telling him, then blamed kitchen failures on Hunter when customers complained.
By the time Hunter discovered the financial deception, the restaurant was already sinking.
Garrett had been siphoning money for months. "
"Hunter never told me the details," I murmur, guilt slicing through me like a blade.
"He wouldn't. Too proud." Eleanor's piercing gaze returns to mine. "He trusts too easily, that boy. Sees the good in people. It's his gift and his curse."
The barb lands precisely, whether intentional or not. I look away, unable to meet those eyes, so like her grandson’s; the weight of my own deception suddenly becomes unbearable.
"I should help with something," I say, rising. "It doesn't seem right just to sit while everyone works."
"Another good sign." Eleanor's smile warms her entire face. "Serving station needs hands, I suspect."
I find myself drafted into service, donning an apron and taking a position behind a long table laden with Hunter's creations.
For the next two hours, I serve food to a steady stream of community members, learning names and connections, hearing more stories about Mabel's place and its importance to Angel's Peak.
The food Hunter has prepared is simpler than his Timberline offerings but no less thoughtful—dishes designed to be served outdoors, to hold their quality through the afternoon, to feed many from ingredients that remain affordable while showcasing local products.
I catch him watching me from across the lawn, a complicated expression on his face.
When our eyes meet, something passes between us—recognition, connection, possibility.
I feel myself falling deeper into whatever this is between us, whatever we might become to each other if circumstances were different.
For one suspended moment, I allow myself to imagine it—a life here, among these mountains and these people. Waking to Hunter's smile each morning. Becoming part of this community that rallies around its own. Trading my nomadic existence for roots, for belonging.
The fantasy is so vivid that it leaves me breathless.
The Denver food writer never materializes—probably stuck in mountain traffic, someone speculates.
The fundraiser collects enough to repair Mabel's roof and bring the electrical system up to code.
As twilight descends, someone produces fiddles and guitars, and impromptu dancing breaks out on the lawn.
Hunter finds me as I'm hanging up my serving apron. "Thank you for helping." His voice is low and intimate, beneath the music and laughter. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to." The simple truth feels revolutionary on my tongue.
His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. "You fit here." The words carry weight beyond their simplicity. "With these people. With me."
My throat tightens. I can't speak past the emotion lodged there.
"Stay." It's barely a whisper, more of a plea than a demand. "Not just for your week. Stay longer."
"Hunter—"
"I know it's fast. I know you have a life elsewhere." His eyes hold mine, nakedly vulnerable in a way I've never seen him. "But I think we could build something real here. Together."
Words fail me entirely. Instead, I rise on tiptoe and kiss him, aware of Eleanor watching from across the lawn, of townspeople noticing and smiling, of how public this declaration feels.
For once, I don't care who sees. Don't care about professional boundaries or my carefully crafted persona. In this moment, I'm just a woman kissing a man she's falling in love with, surrounded by a community that already feels partly mine.
Later, much later, I return to my room at The Haven. The night air carries the scent of pine and woodsmoke. The mountains are black silhouettes against a star-strewn sky. Hunter offered to walk me back, but I needed time alone, and space to think.
My laptop sits where I left it this morning, both drafts of my review still open and unsent. I read through them again—the expected takedown and the honest appreciation, the critic's voice and the woman's heart.
With sudden clarity, I know which is true. Know which I can live with publishing.
I make a few final edits, attach Hunter's grandfather's trout recipe photos, and press send on one of the drafts. Then I close my laptop, unexpectedly at peace with my decision.
My phone rings almost immediately. My editor's name flashes on the screen.
I answer, heart suddenly racing.
"Audrey." Her voice carries confusion and something like concern. "This isn't what I expected from you. Are you sure about this?"