Page 17 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)

Truth and Consequences

P anic claws at my throat as I stare at my phone screen, desperately willing my editor to respond. Three texts, five calls—all unanswered. The wrong version of my review sits in her inbox, poised to destroy everything I've come to care about. Everything Hunter has built.

I have until tomorrow—less than twenty-four hours to fix this catastrophic error.

But even if I succeed, a deeper truth remains: Hunter doesn't know who I am or what I came here to do. Every moment I've spent with him has been built on a foundation of deception, regardless of how real my feelings have become.

I dress quickly—dark jeans, burgundy sweater, boots appropriate for the snow-covered ground. My reflection shows a woman I barely recognize, eyes haunted by the weight of a necessary confession.

The Haven has sprung back to life after the storm. Staff clear paths through knee-deep snow, and guests venture outside to marvel at the transformed landscape. The sense of shared crisis has created a strange camaraderie among strangers.

I barely notice any of it, my mind fixed on a single purpose as I make my way to Timberline.

The restaurant is located in its own wing of the lodge, accessible both from within and via a separate entrance for non-hotel guests.

I choose the external path, needing these few minutes in the biting cold to clear my head and rehearse what I'll say.

I need to tell you something. I haven't been honest about who I am. I'm the food critic for Palette Magazine. I came here to review Timberline, but I never expected to meet you, to feel this connection...

No matter how I phrase it, the truth sounds hollow and self-serving.

The restaurant's entrance is partially blocked by drifted snow, but the door yields when I push.

Inside, controlled chaos reigns. Staff hurry between stations, checking inventory and assessing storm damage.

A ceiling leak has been contained with the strategic placement of pots and buckets.

The massive windows, typically showcasing mountain views, are still partially obscured by ice and snow.

Hunter stands at the center, sleeves rolled to his elbows, issuing instructions with calm authority despite the dark circles under his eyes suggesting he hasn't slept.

He hasn't noticed me yet, giving me a moment to observe him in his element—focused, decisive, and completely in command of his domain despite the crisis.

Courage nearly fails me. How can I shatter this man's world? Yet how can I not tell him before he discovers the truth from someone else?

He looks up, eyes finding mine across the room. His expression softens instantly, worry lines easing as he changes course to approach me.

"Hey." His voice drops for my ears alone as he reaches me. "I was going to come find you once we got this under control."

"I need to see you." My voice sounds strained. "To talk to you about something important."

Concern shadows his features. "Everything okay?"

"Not exactly. I need to?—"

"Hunter!" A server hurries over with a clipboard. "The seafood delivery can't get through. Rockslide on the pass."

Hunter's focus shifts, his professional responsibilities taking priority over our conversation. "Call Marie at High Country Farms. See if she can increase our meat order. And check with Javier about additional vegetable options." He turns back to me. "Sorry. Give me just a few minutes?"

Those few minutes stretch to thirty as one crisis after another demands his attention. I hover at the edges of the activity, watching Hunter navigate each challenge with the same grace he brings to creating his dishes.

A distinguished dark-haired man in an impeccably tailored suit enters, surveying the situation with a critical eye. Lucas Reid, I presume. His presence changes the energy in the room immediately—staff stand straighter, voices lower, movement becomes more purposeful.

"Morgan." His voice carries both authority and concern. "How do things look?"

Hunter straightens, meeting his gaze directly. "Minimal structural damage. One leak contained. We've lost the seafood delivery due to road conditions, but we're adapting the menu. We can open for dinner service tonight with a limited selection."

"Cancellations?" Lucas asks.

"Three so far. We're calling to confirm the remaining reservations."

Lucas nods, seemingly satisfied. His gaze sweeps the room, landing on me with sudden interest. "And who is this?"

Hunter's expression shifts subtly—protective, possessive. "Audrey Tristan. A... friend."

Lucas approaches, offering a manicured hand. "Lucas Reid. A pleasure, Ms. Tristan. Are you enjoying your stay at The Haven?"

"Very much," I respond, shaking his hand. "You've created something special here."

"Hunter is responsible for Haven’s success." His tone suggests this is both a compliment and an expectation. He turns back to Hunter. "We need to discuss the financial implications of yesterday's closure. My office, thirty minutes."

"I'll be there." Hunter's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

As Lucas departs, Hunter rubs the back of his neck, tension radiating from his posture. "Sorry about this. Not exactly how I planned to spend time with you today."

"I understand." I step closer, lowering my voice. "Hunter, I really need to tell you something."

"Chef!" His sous chef appears, panic evident. "The walk-in's temperature is fluctuating. We might lose everything if the compressor's damaged."

Hunter curses under his breath. "I need to handle this." Regret fills his eyes. "Can it wait? I promise I'll make time for us later."

The coward in me seizes the reprieve. "I can help if you need extra hands."

Relief washes over his features. "That would be amazing. We're short-staffed with people unable to make it in."

Before I can reconsider, I'm being handed an apron, integrated into Timberline's emergency response.

For the next two hours, I work alongside Hunter and his team, inventorying the surviving ingredients, helping to revise the menu based on available products, and preparing vegetables for dinner service.

The work is physical and immediate, requiring full concentration. Hunter moves around the kitchen, occasionally passing behind me with a hand at the small of my back, our bodies unconsciously finding synchronicity in the shared space.

"You're good at this," he comments, watching me julienne carrots with surprising precision. "Are you sure you haven't worked in a kitchen before?"

"I picked up a few things over the years." It’s not technically a lie, but my stomach twists nonetheless.

We're alone in the walk-in refrigerator when the mounting tension between us finally breaks.

Hunter has been checking the repaired cooling system to ensure the temperature remains stable, thereby preserving his precious ingredients.

I'm behind him, cataloging the cheese selection that survived the power fluctuations.

"I think we're back to normal," he says, making a note on his clipboard. "Crisis averted."

"Good." I reach past him for a wheel of aged cheddar, my body brushing against his.

The simple contact ignites something primal.

His clipboard clatters to the floor as he turns, backing me against the stainless steel shelving.

One hand braces beside my head, and the other is already sliding under the hem of my sweater.

His mouth finds mine with devastating precision, and his hands grip my hips to pull me flush against him.

The refrigerator’s cold air clings to my skin, but I don’t feel it. Not with the heat radiating off him, not with his hands gripping my waist like he’s seconds from unraveling.

“We shouldn’t,” I whisper against his mouth, my breath already gone. "Your staff?—"

His lips trail down my jaw. “Don’t care.” His voice is a low rasp against my neck. “Been watching you in my kitchen all day. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

His hand slides beneath my sweater, palm flat against my stomach, fingers splayed possessively. I arch into his touch, all thoughts of confession temporarily burned away by more immediate need.

His fingers fumble at the button of my jeans. I clutch at his shirt, the fabric in my fists grounding me as he yanks the zipper down and pushes my jeans over my hips. Cold air rushes in—then vanishes as his hand slides between my thighs, sure and possessive.

“You’re burning up,” he murmurs, voice shaking now. “Fuck, Audrey."

My hands dive beneath his chef’s coat, searching for skin and the taut muscles I remember. I find them—solid and hot—and press my palms against his stomach, his chest, needing all of him at once.

"Five minutes," he murmurs, lifting me onto a cleared shelf. "Give me five minutes."

He shoves his pants down just enough and lifts me in one smooth motion. I wrap my legs around him, the shelving cold and sharp against my spine, his hands hard beneath my thighs.

He pushes inside me in one deep stroke, and I gasp—head falling back against the metal, pleasure spiking through my entire body.

“God,” he breathes. “I forgot…”

He doesn’t finish. Just moves. Thrusting into me with a desperate rhythm, hands everywhere—gripping my hips, sliding under my sweater to find skin, cupping my breast through my bra as his mouth claims mine again.

I hold on—arms wrapped around his neck, breath caught in my throat—each grind of his hips sending sparks through my core.

There’s no finesse. No patience. Just need compacted into a frantic rhythm of soft moans, quick gasps, and bodies colliding in the cold.

“I’m close,” I whisper against his ear, nails digging into his back.

“Me too,” he groans, thrusting harder. “Don’t stop—just stay with me?—”

And I do.

I break first, clenching around him as pleasure rips through me, sharp and fast. He follows seconds later, hips jerking once, twice more as he spills inside me, breath caught in his throat.

We stay like that, frozen in the aftermath—his forehead resting against mine, breath coming in white puffs between us.

Neither of us speaks.

There’s only the sound of our breathing, the fridge’s hum, and my heartbeat pounding inside my chest.

Then, quietly, like he’s not sure he should say it at all?—

“I’m falling in love with you.”

The words land like an avalanche.

My heart simultaneously soars and plummets. "Hunter—" I swallow hard, heart tripping.

"I know." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with surprising tenderness, given our hasty coupling. "I know you have a life elsewhere, but I've never felt this connected to anyone."

He helps me down from the shelf, both of us adjusting our clothing with slightly shaky hands.

"Stay." His eyes hold mine, vulnerability naked in their depths. "Not just for this week. Stay longer. Give us a real chance."

The moment to confess is now before his hopes build any further. Before more damage is done.

"There's something you need to know about me." I force the words past the tightness in my throat.

"Whatever it is, it doesn't matter." He takes my hands in his. "The past is?—"

The walk-in door swings open, his sous chef's voice cutting through our bubble. "Chef, Lucas is looking for you. Says it's urgent."

Hunter sighs, squeezing my hands once before releasing them. "We'll finish this conversation later, I promise."

As we emerge from the refrigerator, several staff members exchange knowing glances. Our absence—and its nature—hasn't gone unnoticed. Under different circumstances, I might be embarrassed. Now, I'm too preoccupied with the confession hanging unspoken between us.

Hunter's phone buzzes in his pocket as we cross the kitchen. Then again. And again. He frowns, pulling it out to check the screen.

"What the hell?" Confusion crosses his features as he scrolls through notifications. "My phone's blowing up with messages."

My blood turns to ice. It can't be. Not already.

He stops walking abruptly, staring at his screen with growing amazement. "It's... it's a review. Of Timberline." His voice rises with excitement. "In Palette Magazine. They've published online ahead of print."

The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet.

"It's... incredible." Wonder fills his voice as he continues reading. "Listen to this: 'Chef Morgan's connection to place transcends mere farm-to-table trendiness, creating instead a profound dialogue between landscape and plate that only a native son could achieve.'"

Relief floods through me so intensely that I have to grasp the edge of a prep table for support. They published the right version—my honest assessment, not the cutting takedown that would have destroyed him.

Hunter continues reading aloud, and his staff gathers around him as he shares passages from my review.

I hear my own words—about his innovative techniques, respect for ingredients, and ability to translate mountain terroir into unforgettable dining experiences.

With each sentence, his face brightens, years of doubt and struggle visibly lifting from his shoulders.

"This changes everything." He looks up, eyes shining. "A feature review in Palette will bring in the clients Lucas has been wanting."

His sous chef claps him on the shoulder. "Couldn't happen to a more deserving chef."

The kitchen erupts in celebration. Someone produces a bottle of champagne reserved for special occasions. Glasses are distributed, and a toast is proposed to Hunter's success.

I accept a glass mechanically, my heart pounding as I wait for the other shoe to drop, for Hunter to see the byline, for him to make the connection.

"Wait, there are pictures." He returns to his phone, scrolling further. "A trout dish—my grandfather's recipe?"

His brow furrows slightly. "How did they—" He stops mid-sentence, eyes lifting to find mine across the room.

Recognition dawns slowly, then all at once. His expression shifts from confusion to understanding, and then betrayal in the space of a heartbeat. The champagne glass in his hand lowers.

"Audrey Tristan." He says my name differently now, testing it with new awareness. "‘You’re The Executioner ?"

The kitchen falls silent; staff sense the sudden shift but do not understand its cause.

Hunter moves toward me, each step measured and deliberate. When he reaches me, his voice is low and controlled but edged with pain that cuts deeper than anger ever could.

"You lied to me."