Page 18 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)

Fallout

H unter's words hang between us, slicing through the warmth that filled the kitchen moments ago. His eyes—those that looked at me with desire, tenderness, and what I began to believe was love—have gone cold. The transformation is so complete that it steals my breath.

"Hunter, I can explain—" My voice sounds foreign to my ears, small and desperate.

"Explain what?" The muscle in his jaw jumps as he clenches his teeth.

His hands—those strong, capable hands that explored every inch of my body just minutes ago—curl into fists at his sides.

"Explain how you came here to dissect my restaurant.

How you slept with me while taking mental notes for your review? "

The accusation burns like acid. "That's not what happened."

"No?" He grabs his phone, scrolls to the article that's just published, and reads it aloud.

"'Chef Morgan's delicate handling of the native mountain trout showcases his reverence for local ingredients, the pine-smoked flavor evoking memories of wilderness campfires.

' Tell me, Audrey—or should I call you by your byline?

—was that before or after I took you against the refrigerator door? "

My cheeks flame with shame. Not because the words aren't true—they are, every syllable written from my heart—but because the timing makes them seem calculating, crafted from our intimacy rather than my honest assessment.

"I was trying to tell you." The protest sounds hollow even to me.

"When?" Hunter slams his phone down on the steel prep table. The clatter makes me flinch. "After publication? After you left town? Or were you planning to ghost me completely, disappear back to your city life with your secret intact?"

"Today. I came here to tell you today . I’ve been trying to tell you all day."

A harsh laugh escapes him. "Convenient timing."

The kitchen feels suddenly airless, the walls closing in around us. Staff members hover at the periphery, pretending not to watch the implosion of whatever Hunter and I were building.

"The review is good." I reach for him, but he steps back as if my touch might burn. "I fought my editor to publish it this way. She wanted something more sensational, more..."

"More like what The Executioner usually writes?" His voice drops dangerously low. "Is that supposed to make me feel special? Grateful?"

"I'm not asking for gratitude. I'm asking for understanding." Tears press hot behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. "What happened between us—that wasn't research or manipulation. It was real."

"Was it?" Hunter rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "How would I know? Everything about you has been a lie."

"Not everything." I step forward, desperation making me brave. "Not how I feel about you. Not what happened in the greenhouse, or the cabin, or in your kitchen. Not how you've made me feel more alive in a week than I've felt in years."

Something flickers in his eyes for a heartbeat—a momentary softening, a willingness to listen. Then the kitchen door swings open, and Lucas Reid strides in, oblivious to the emotional carnage he's walking into.

"Hunter! Have you seen the review?" Lucas's face glows with triumph, tablet clutched in his hand. "The Executioner—THE Executioner—just called Timberline 'the most exciting culinary destination in the mountain region.' Reservations are already pouring in."

Hunter's gaze slides from Lucas to me, the betrayal fresh and raw in his expression.

"Lucas," Hunter's voice is controlled and professional. "Meet Audrey Tristan, food critic and The Executioner herself."

Lucas blinks, looking between us as realization dawns. "You're?—"

"She was just leaving." Hunter turns his back on me, focusing on the mise en place arranged on the counter.

"Hunter—" I reach for him again.

"Don't." The word is soft but final. "Please respect me enough to leave now."

Lucas, finally sensing the tension, clears his throat. "I'll give you two a moment. Hunter, when you're done, I want to discuss some ideas for capitalizing on this publicity."

The door swings shut behind him, leaving us in a silence that aches.

"I never meant to hurt you." My voice breaks over the words.

Hunter doesn't look up from the vegetables he's viciously chopping. "Ask yourself something, Audrey. Would your review have been different if you hadn’t fallen into bed with me?"

The question lands like a blow. Because the honest answer—the one that would hurt him more—is yes.

Not because my professional assessment of his food would have changed but because I wouldn't have seen the heart behind it.

I wouldn't have foraged with him in the mountains, wouldn't have watched him cook for the town fundraiser with such genuine care, and wouldn't have understood how his food told the story of this place and these people.

"That's what I thought." He reads my silence as confirmation. "Please go."

There's nothing left to say. My feet carry me through the dining room, where Lucas stands with his tablet, already making calls about expanded hours.

The hostess who seated me on my first visit offers a confused smile.

Outside, the mountain air that had seemed so crisp and promising now feels thin and insufficient to fill my lungs.

I walk blindly, letting my feet guide me while my mind replays every moment with Hunter, now tainted by this ending. I find myself at Maggie's Diner, the bell announcing my entrance just as it did that first day.

The red vinyl booth squeaks as I slide into it. A waitress approaches with coffee without my asking.

"You look like you need this, honey." She sets the mug down with a motherly pat on my hand.

The simple kindness undoes me. A tear escapes, then another, until I'm pressing a paper napkin to my eyes.

"Man trouble?" Darlene doesn't wait for an answer. "Best cure is Maggie's apple pie. On the house."

The pie arrives golden and fragrant, but I can't bring myself to taste it. My phone buzzes with a text from my editor.

Readers love the review. Surprising angle from you. Softer. Have you lost your edge?

The words blur through my tears. Have I lost my edge? Or found something I never knew I was missing?

Two stools down at the counter, an elderly woman with a cloud of white hair watches me over her coffee cup. "You're her, aren't you? The writer who wrote about Hunter's place."

I nod, bracing for either gratitude or hostility. The town's loyalty to Hunter runs deep, as does the gossip.

"My grandson works as a dishwasher there." She sips her coffee. "Says the review's already bringing in calls. Might need to hire more help."

"That's... good." My voice is hollow.

"You the reason Hunter looked like he'd been gut-punched. My nephew’s words?"

I look up, startled by her directness. "You know Hunter?"

"Honey, everyone knows everyone in Angel's Peak. And everyone knows something's been happening between you two." She slides over to the booth across from me. "I'm Edith. Post office forty-two years."

"Audrey." I extend my hand automatically.

"I know who you are." She doesn't elaborate. "So, what happened? You wrote a good review. Boy should be over the moon."

"I didn't tell him who I was." The confession comes easier with this stranger. "I was trying, before the review came out, but he found out afterward."

Edith clicks her tongue. "Pride. Men have too much of it. Especially that one."

"He has every right to be angry."

"Sure he does. Question is, what are you going to do about it?"

I stare at her. "Do? There's nothing to do. He made it clear he wants me gone."

"And you always do what men tell you?" Edith arches an eyebrow. "Doesn't sound like the woman who wrote that review."

My phone buzzes again. More texts, emails, and notifications as the review circulates. The online version already has hundreds of comments. My editor wants to discuss a feature on mountain cuisine. My assistant asks about follow-up restaurants to visit.

The life I built is calling me back, but it suddenly seems hollow. Empty words about food that never filled the gnawing vacancy inside me. Not the way Angel's Peak has. Not the way Hunter did.

"I should pack." I leave cash on the table despite Darlene's offer of free pie. "My flight's tomorrow."

Back at The Haven, I mechanically fold clothes into my suitcase.

Each item reminds me of a moment with Hunter—the sweater I wore foraging, the dress from our first dinner, the shirt he peeled off me in the greenhouse.

I should burn them all, artifacts of a week that changed everything and ultimately led nowhere.

A knock at the door interrupts my melancholy. Probably housekeeping. I open it to find Hunter's grandmother, Eleanor, her weathered face grave.

"Mrs. Morgan." I step back, surprised.

"You're packing." She nods at the open suitcase. "Running away."

"Your grandson made it clear I'm not welcome here anymore."

"My grandson is a stubborn fool." She enters uninvited, surveying the room. "Takes after his grandfather that way. Locked himself in the smokehouse for three days when we had our first real fight."

I don't know what to say to this unexpected visitor or her shared confidence.

"He showed me your review." Grace sits in the armchair by the window. "Beautiful writing. Honest."

"Thank you." The praise feels unearned.

"You love him." Not a question but a statement of fact.

"Yes." The truth rises in me, impossible to deny.

"And he loves you, though he's too angry to admit it right now."

"I betrayed his trust." Hope flickers, faint and dangerous.

"Yes, you did." Her bluntness is oddly comforting. "The question is, what matters more—being right or being happy?"

"I don't think it's that simple."

"It never is." She stands, smoothing her skirt. "I'm not here to offer easy forgiveness. That's Hunter's to give or withhold. But if you truly love my grandson, you'll fight for him. And if you don't think he's worth fighting for, then you should definitely get on that plane tomorrow."

She leaves as abruptly as she arrived, the door clicking softly behind her.

I sit on the edge of the bed, her words echoing in my mind. Fight for him .

The concept is foreign. I've spent my career fighting against mediocrity, against complacency, and against my fear of irrelevance. I've never fought for someone.

For connection.

For love.

The decision crystallizes slowly, certainty building like the gathering clouds outside my window. I'll leave tomorrow as planned. Give Hunter space.

But I won't disappear.

I'll write to him—not an email that is easily deleted or a text that is easily ignored, but a letter. Words on paper, honest and raw. And then another. And another. Until he knows the whole truth of what he means to me.

I pull out my laptop, open a document, and begin to write the first letter, not as the Executioner, but as Audrey.

Just Audrey.

My phone rings as I finish, an unknown local number. Probably the front desk confirming checkout details. I answer distractedly, still lost in the words I've written.

"Is this Audrey Tristan?" A familiar voice, though not Hunter's.

"Yes, this is Audrey."

"It's Miguel, Hunter's sous chef." His voice is low, urgent. "There's something you need to know. Lucas is replacing Hunter at Timberline."

The world shifts beneath me, pieces clicking into a terrible place. Lucas’s eagerness about the review, his mention of "ideas" for capitalizing on the publicity, and the tension I'd sensed between the two men.

"What do you mean, replacing him?"

"Lucas thinks Timberline needs a more commercial chef now that it's getting national attention. Someone who'll create Instagram-worthy dishes, play to the crowds." Miguel's voice drips with disgust. "He's giving Hunter a choice—change his cooking style or step down."

"But the review celebrated Hunter's cooking exactly as it is." My stomach twists with the irony. The very success I helped create might cost Hunter everything.

"Lucas thinks your review creates an opportunity to 'elevate' the concept. Whatever that means."

"When is this happening?"

"Meeting tomorrow morning. Hunter doesn't know I'm calling you. He'd probably kill me if he did. But you got it right—in the review. About his food, about what makes this place special. And I thought..." Miguel hesitates. "I thought maybe you could help."

The request hangs between us, impossible and necessary all at once.

"I'll be there." The words come without conscious thought, certainty replacing hesitation. I'm not leaving Angel's Peak. Not yet.

I hang up and look at my half-packed suitcase. Slowly and deliberately, I return items to the drawers. The sweater. The dress. The shirt. Artifacts of a week that changed everything—and might yet lead somewhere after all.