Page 2 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)

The question slips out low and husky. Some small part of me pretends it’s concern about the power, but it’s not. Not really.

“In this?” His chuckle wraps around my spine like a rope being drawn tight. “Not unless you’re craving a complimentary shower. There are worse places to wait out a blackout.”

Somewhere above, rain finds a seam in the glass and drums a soft rhythm into the silence—steady, intimate, like a heartbeat.

“I’ve got a light.”

His hand brushes my bare arm as he moves past. Barely a touch, but it sears. Skin-to-skin contact in the dark, and I swear my nerve endings short-circuit.

A soft glow blooms beside me as he flips on his phone flashlight. It casts pale light across his face—that strong jaw, the shadows under his cheekbones, the faint crease at the edge of his mouth as he focuses on the drawer.

“Here we go.”

He strikes a match. The sulfur flares, and golden light spills around us as he lights one candle, then another, scattering them across the workbench like stars dropped into our orbit.

The room glows a warm amber, turning the storm into a distant thing, but I don’t look away from him—not even when the candles flicker.

His face turns, and he catches me watching. Holds me there. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pretend.

The air thickens. Charged. Electric in the absence of electricity.

“I don’t usually do this.” His voice is lower now, scraped raw. It vibrates somewhere under my ribs, in that space behind my breastbone where reason used to live.

“Do what?” My voice barely makes it out.

“Notice someone this fast.” He steps closer, and the scent of him hits me—wet earth, bourbon, rain-warmed skin. Something darker underneath. Spiced. Male. Dangerous.

I should move. Should put space between us. Should remember who I am and why I’m here.

But I don’t.

Instead, I lift my chin. “I don’t usually get noticed.”

“Then you’ve been around blind people.” His hand lifts, pausing a breath away from my face. Close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his skin. “May I?”

My yes is barely a breath, swallowed by the silence between us.

His fingers find my cheek—a featherlight stroke, maddening in its restraint. The touch ignites something beneath my skin, a slow burn that spreads like fire through dry grass. Down my neck. Across my chest. Lower.

This is insane.

I don’t know his name. Don’t know a damn thing except how my body reacts to him—fast, unthinking, molten. Like it’s been waiting for this exact touch without knowing it.

Thunder detonates directly overhead, a violent crack that shudders through the glass. I gasp, a cry escaping before I can catch it.

His arms catch me before I can stumble. One hand on my back, the other steadying my upper arm as I collide with his chest—solid, warm, soaked with rain and heat.

We freeze.

My palms flatten against him, feeling the drumbeat of his heart, the slow rise and fall of breath. His hands tighten slightly, not possessive… not yet. But there’s a gravitational pull anchoring me to this man like he’s the center of some unspoken orbit.

Electricity ripples between us, strong enough to drown out the storm.

His pupils blow wide, swallowing the green.

My gaze drops—to his mouth.

Full. Sensual. The bottom lip slightly fuller, slightly wet.

He’s breathing faster now. So am I.

No one knows me here.

Not the version I’ve built, the perfectly curated mask.

Not the critic. Not the control.

Only this man. Only this moment.

Heat pools low and hard, a pulse between my legs that won’t be ignored. My skin aches for pressure. For friction. For him.

His scent curls around me—rain, soil, and bourbon-soaked heat—until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t be anything but the desire crawling under my skin.

I slide my hands higher, over his chest, shoulders, until my fingers flex against thick muscle under damp cotton.

His eyes track every movement.

And when I wet my lips—just a flick of tongue across dryness—he watches it like I just stripped off my clothes and asked him to ruin me.

He moves. A breath. A shift. His hands drift from my arms to my back, spreading wide, palms warm as they curve around me.

I arch. Need rising like a tide.

Another rumble of thunder—but this time, I don’t flinch.

Can’t.

I’m pinned by the weight of his attention, by his nearness, by the sheer physical fact of him.

My fingers find the stubble along his jaw, trail upward, tangling in damp hair.

That’s what breaks him.

His body goes still—tight with restraint. Then that restraint snaps.

Jaw clenching. Eyes darkening.

And then—his mouth crashes down on mine.

What begins as contact becomes consumption, his lips devouring mine with a hunger that detonates heat low and hard in my belly.

I open for him without hesitation, lips parting beneath the insistent press of his tongue.

He tastes like bourbon and heat, like the spark of a match catching dry kindling. I burn for him.

The workbench slams into my back as he presses forward, crowding me with the full weight of his body. One hand slides to the base of my skull, anchoring me, the other spanning my lower back and pulling me into him—no space, no breath, no choice but to feel.

His arousal grinds against my stomach, hard and undeniable, and a sound slips from me—needy, involuntary, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

I want more. Want to climb him. Take him. Drown in this.

My hands push beneath the wet cling of his shirt, greedy for bare skin. He’s heat and hard muscle, his back flexing as my nails scrape lightly down his spine. He groans into my mouth— a deep, primal sound that vibrates through my chest, matching the thunder still crashing outside.

Then I’m lifted effortlessly as he sets me on the workbench. My thighs fall open, instinctively, aching to bring him closer.

He steps between them, fitting the heavy ridge of his desire right where I throb for him, and my whole body clenches in response.

In the flickering candlelight, his gaze catches mine—no question, no pretense. Just hunger. Just heat.

His fingers thread into my hair, tugging gently to bare my throat. His mouth follows. Teeth graze sensitive skin, dragging a sound from me that feels shamefully raw. I tilt my head back, offering more.

His hand slips beneath my sweater, knuckles grazing my ribs, and I arch into his touch—desperate. When he cups my breast, thumb brushing the already-taut peak, my hips jerk upward with a mind of their own.

He growls, the sound feral. Satisfied. Possessive.

Then his head dips, mouth replacing fingers. The wet flick of his tongue draws a cry from me—sharp and strangled, a sound I didn’t know I could make.

Lightning splits the sky, casting us in stark brilliance—my sweater pushed up, his dark head at my breast, my fingers fisted in his shirt like I’ll die if he pulls away.

Thunder crashes right on top of it.

My blood pounds so loud it drowns out everything else.

His hands find the button of my jeans. Quick. Sure. Knowing. The zipper follows, sliding down like a promise, and I lift my hips for him, without hesitation. Without thought.

I never do this.

Never lose control.

Never act on impulse. Never surrender to need.

My life is built on restraint, on measured critique, on being the one who watches—never the one who’s undone.

But this man. This storm.

This moment that has carved us out from the world…

It’s stripped everything else away.

My jeans hit the floor, forgotten. His fingers skim the lace between my thighs, barely touching. Teasing.

The contrast of rough calluses against delicate fabric sends a shiver racing over my skin, every nerve lit like a live wire.

I can’t think. Can’t breathe.

I only know I want more.

A sound escapes me – half-gasp, half-plea – as he hooks his fingers beneath the thin fabric. He adds my panties to the growing pile on the greenhouse floor.

I reach for his belt, my usually nimble fingers clumsy with urgency. He gently moves my hands aside, making short work of the buckle and buttons beneath. I push impatiently at the denim, needing to feel him, all of him, with an intensity that should frighten me.

When my fingers finally wrap around him, his sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying – proof that he's as affected by this madness as I am.

The flash of clarity never comes – there's only sensation and need and the overwhelming magnetism between us. He reaches for his wallet without breaking our kiss, handling the issue of protection before returning his full attention to me.

His fingers find me again, testing my readiness. The contact draws another moan from me, my body already embarrassingly eager. His eyes darken as he strokes once, twice, his jaw clenching with barely contained restraint.

I arch against his hand, beyond words, beyond thought. He takes the invitation, positioning himself and driving forward in one powerful thrust that fills me completely.

We both freeze, adjusting to the sensation – the perfect fit, the fullness, the rightness that makes no logical sense but feels like some essential truth my body has always known.

He drives forward in one powerful thrust that fills me completely, tearing a gasp from my throat. There's no gentleness, no adjustment period – just raw, urgent claiming as his hips snap against mine with an intensity that borders on punishing.

My nails dig into his shoulders as my body arches to take him deeper.

Each powerful thrust pushes me closer to the edge, the wooden bench creaking beneath us with the force of our movements.

One hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise while the other tangles in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat to his mouth.

The workbench creaks beneath us, herbs releasing their scent as we disturb them. Rosemary, basil, something citrusy – a heady backdrop to the more primal scents of rain, sex, and sweat.

He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly I'm climbing rapidly toward a peak I hadn't expected to reach so quickly.

He must feel it in the way I tighten around him, because his movements grow more focused, deliberate.

His eyes hold mine, refusing to let me look away as pleasure builds to an almost unbearable intensity.

The tension coils tighter, reaches breaking point. When it snaps, pleasure crashes through me in waves that steal my breath and vision. My cry mingles with another crack of thunder as my body convulses around him.

He follows moments later, his rhythm faltering as he drives deep one final time, body shuddering against mine. For several heartbeats, we remain locked together, his forehead pressed to mine, both of us struggling to catch our breath.

Reality returns slowly. The storm continues around us, but with less fury now, moving past, leaving us in its wake. I become aware of the hardness of the bench beneath me, the cooling sweat on my skin, the absurdity of what we've just done.

He seems to reach the same realization, carefully separating from me and disposing of the condom in a covered bin. We dress in charged silence, stealing glances at each other like teenagers after a first encounter.

"I'm Hunter, by the way." He rebuttons his shirt, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Probably should have mentioned that earlier."

"Audrey." My laughter holds a note of hysteria. "Nice to... meet you."

His gaze drops to my mouth for a beat. Then he steps in close—close enough that his voice can drop into something low and intimate. Just for me.

“Should’ve told you sooner. But then again…” He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “I was enjoying fucking you too much.”

My breath stutters. Heat slams into me, all over again.

Before I can recover, he pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, the grin still tugging at his lips—but now there’s something darker behind it. Honest.

“Jesus, Audrey…” His voice drops, thick with the echo of what just passed between us. “That was so fucking hot.” His gaze flicks to my mouth again, jaw flexing. “You are too fucking hot.”

I should say something witty. Clever. Professional.

But I’m still burning. Still bare beneath my clothes.

“Yeah, well…” I lift my chin, voice unsteady but trying for bravado. “You were pretty spectacular yourself.”

"Good to know." His grin sharpens, and my pulse skips. “I’m not against round two.” He laughs—low and satisfied—like I just confirmed something he already knew.

Round two? Holy granola, I’m not sure if I’ll survive round two.

His phone buzzes, the screen lighting up: KITCHEN – Incoming Call.

The spell wavers—but doesn’t break.

Hunter glances at it, expression shifting to something more guarded. "Hmm, round two will need to wait. I’m sorry, but I need to take this. The storm probably has things in chaos back at the main building."

"You work at the lodge?" My curiosity piques.

"Something like that." He accepts the call, turning slightly away. "How bad is it?"

The rest of his conversation fades into background noise as I try to compose myself, smoothing down my clothing and running fingers through my tangled hair.

I straighten my clothes, running fingers through tangled hair. The lights flicker once, twice, then hum back to life, exposing the evidence of our encounter – disturbed plants, scattered candles, my flushed face.

"I have to go." Hunter ends his call, already moving toward the door. "Power's back, and I need to do chaos control. Half the staff are stuck in town."

"Of course." Relief floods through me that he hasn't made the connection between random tourist and potential reviewer.

"I hope I’ll see you around the lodge?" He pauses at the door, conflict evident in his expression.

"That would be nice."

With a last lingering look, he's gone, disappearing into the now-gentle rain. I give myself five minutes before following, taking the path back to the main building on shaky legs.

My room welcomes me with impersonal comfort – the quilt now turned down, a chocolate on the pillow, the rain pattering against windows that frame mountains now shrouded in mist. I sink onto the edge of the bed, my body still humming with aftershocks of pleasure and adrenaline.

My phone chimes with a notification, shattering the moment of quiet reflection. I reach for it automatically, expecting my editor again.

Instead, it's from the lodge: "Your reservation at Timberline is confirmed for tomorrow at 7:00 PM. Chef Morgan looks forward to preparing a special dining experience for you."

My stomach performs a slow roll that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with what just happened in that greenhouse.

I just had mind-blowing sex with a complete stranger.

A stranger, I hope to run into again.