Page 15 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)
Brewing Storm
T he storm arrives with a vengeance no one predicted.
A text from Hunter awaits: "Check outside your door."
I wrap myself in the plush robe hanging in the bathroom and open my suite door to find a thermos, a basket of still-warm pastries, and a handwritten note: "Storm knocked out power. Generator running for essentials only. Stay warm. Will check on you later. -H"
The gesture warms me more than the coffee, which turns out to be perfect, strong and laced with cinnamon and something else I can't quite identify. The pastries are Hunter's creation, I'm certain—delicate layers that shatter beautifully, filled with local preserves.
My editor hasn't called again since our brief, confused conversation last night.
After her initial surprise at my glowing review of Timberline, she recovered quickly, shifting to practicalities—timeline, photos, headline options.
I ended the call before she could ask too many questions about my uncharacteristic praise.
Now, watching the blizzard transform the landscape into something alien and dangerous, I wonder if this storm is some cosmic reflection of my internal turbulence.
The power flickers, then stabilizes at half-strength.
Emergency lighting casts an amber glow through the hallways as I venture out, dressed in my warmest clothes.
Other guests huddle in the main lobby where staff distribute blankets and hot beverages.
The massive stone fireplace roars with fresh-cut logs, becoming the heart of the improvised refugee camp.
"Haven't seen a storm like this in September for twenty years." A maintenance worker feeds another log into the flames. "Three feet already and more coming. Roads are closed in both directions."
"What about the town? Are they okay?" I'm surprised by how quickly my concern turns to the people I met yesterday—Ruth at The Pickaxe, Mabel with her historic guest house, Eleanor with her perceptive eyes.
"Angel's Peak folk know how to handle weather." The man nods with certainty. "Been doing it for generations. It's you flatlanders we worry about."
A commotion at the main entrance draws attention. Hunter stamps in, snow coating his shoulders and hair, carrying crates of supplies. Several kitchen staff follow, similarly burdened. His eyes find mine across the crowded room, a brief connection before duty calls him back to work.
For the next few hours, I watch him move through the lodge—checking on elderly guests, organizing his kitchen staff to provide hot food despite limited power, coordinating with maintenance on generator priorities.
His leadership style remains the same as in his kitchen—calm, decisive, focused on others' needs before his own.
By late afternoon, the storm shows no signs of abating.
The world outside has disappeared entirely, the windows nothing but rectangles of impenetrable white.
I've migrated to a corner armchair with a borrowed paperback, trying to lose myself in fiction rather than dwell on the reality of my situation.
"You look comfortable." Hunter appears beside me, the first chance he's had to approach all day. Despite hours of crisis management, he seems energized rather than exhausted. "How are you holding up?"
"Better than most." I nod toward a family with restless children, parents looking increasingly frazzled. "Though I'm running out of distractions."
"I might have a solution for that." He glances at his watch. "Kitchen's under control for the next hour. Want to see something?"
Curiosity piqued, I follow him through service corridors and up a narrow staircase I didn't know existed.
We emerge into a small observatory perched at the highest point of the lodge.
Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides would normally showcase a panoramic view of the mountains.
Today, they display nothing but churning snow and the occasional flash of ice crystals caught in the exterior lights.
"It's beautiful, in its way." I approach the glass, feeling the cold radiating from the surface. "Terrifying, but beautiful."
"Nature's reminder that we're not in charge." Hunter stands close enough that I feel his warmth. "No matter how much we think we've tamed this place."
The room holds several telescopes and star charts, apparently used for guest activities on clear nights. A small seating area occupies one corner, and Hunter guides me there, producing a flask from inside his jacket.
"Emergency supplies." He pours amber liquid into two tumblers. "My grandfather's whiskey. He distilled it himself."
The spirit burns pleasantly as it goes down, warming me from the inside with notes of honey, oak, and something uniquely mountain—perhaps the spring water used in its creation.
"You've been amazing today." I gesture vaguely toward the lodge below. "Taking care of everyone."
He shrugs, uncomfortable with the praise. "It's what needs doing."
"It's more than that." I turn to face him fully. "You care. Genuinely care about all of them. It's not just professional responsibility."
"These mountains raised me." He stares into his glass. "The people here looked after me and Gram after my parents died. When my grandfather passed three years ago, they became my family." He takes another sip, eyes reflecting the whiskey's color. "I owe them everything."
"Is that why you came back? After Denver?"
Pain flickers across his features. "Partly. Also, because I had nowhere else to go." His admission carries raw honesty. "The restaurant's failure nearly broke me. Not financially—though that was bad enough—but here." He taps his chest. "I started to believe what they were saying about me."
"What, who was saying?"
"Critics. Former employees who jumped ship. Industry people who love watching a rising star crash and burn." Bitterness edges his voice for the first time since I've known him. "That I was overrated. A flash in the pan. That I'd reached beyond my abilities."
I think of my cutting reviews and how I never considered their impact beyond circulation numbers and professional reputation. How many chefs had I wounded with clever turns of phrase meant more to entertain readers than provide constructive criticism?
"Lucas gave me a lifeline when no one else would.
" Hunter continues, unaware of my internal reckoning.
"He remembered me from culinary school—he was a guest lecturer, inherited wealth with a passion for food.
When he took over this property from his grandfather and developed The Haven into what it is now, he offered me Timberline. "
"Sounds like a good friend."
"Cousin, actually, and he is." Hunter's use of past tense catches my attention. "Until recently."
"What changed?"
"Money. Investors." He sighs, refilling our glasses. "The Haven isn't performing as expected. Timberline does well, but the rooms aren't booking at the projected rates. The investors are pressuring him."
"And he's pressuring you."
His laugh holds no humor. "Last week, he suggested we 'pivot the concept.
' Make Timberline more accessible. Add burger night and pasta specials.
" His hand tightens around his glass. "Everything my grandfather taught me about honoring ingredients, about cooking with integrity—Lucas wants to sacrifice it for profit margins. "
"What will you do?" The question emerges barely above a whisper.
"Fight." Determination hardens his features. "This kitchen is my second chance. I won't compromise what makes it special." His eyes find mine, vulnerability beneath the resolve. "But I'm afraid of failing. Of letting down the people who believed in me when no one else would."
The confession hangs between us, weighted with trust I haven't earned. I should tell him who I am and what I’ve done, but the words stick in my throat, selfish fear winning out over honesty.
"You won't fail." Instead, I reach for him, hand resting against his cheek.
"You sound certain." He turns his face into my palm, lips brushing my skin.
"I am." At least in this, I can be honest. My review will ensure it.
"Remember what you told me? In the cabin?" His demeanor shifts subtly, eyes darkening as he catches my wrist. "About liking when I take charge." His thumb traces circles against my pulse point. "Did you mean it?"
"Yes." Heat floods my body at the memory.
“Would you let me do that now?”
His voice is low. Rough velvet. A question—and a promise. “Really take control?”
My breath catches. The air thickens between us, charged with the weight of what he’s asking. It’s not just about tonight. It’s about everything. About trust. About surrender. About what I want—maybe even what I need.
I meet his eyes. “What did you have in mind?” Anticipation coils low in my belly.
"Trust me?" He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a black silk handkerchief—folded and worn, soft with use.
A pulse of heat surges through me.
He moves behind me without a word, the silk sliding across my cheek, my temple. Then over my eyes. Darkness closes in, silencing everything but the drumbeat of my heart and the sound of his breath—steady, sure, closer than I thought.
"Stand." The command comes quietly but firmly.
My legs wobble slightly as I rise. His hands find my waist, large and warm, grounding me.
"I'm going to touch you now." His voice in my ear sends shivers down my spine. "You can say stop at any time. Understand?"
"Yes."
He takes my hand and leads me. Each step unfamiliar. I brush against something—a table, maybe—a chair leg. Then cool air wraps around me, and I realize we’re near the window.
“Hands above your head.”
I lift them. Fingers searching.
He binds my wrists together with something soft and smooth—his scarf, I think—then fastens it to something overhead. My arms stretch. My back arches. I’m exposed. Suspended. Vulnerable in a way that makes my thighs clench and my breath catch.