Page 21 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)

Perfect Pairing

T he magazine arrives via courier while I'm having coffee at Maggie's Diner, staring out at the mountains as if they might offer some wisdom about Hunter's silence over the past three days. The delivery man checks my ID twice before handing over the thick padded envelope.

"Special delivery from New York," he says, curiosity evident in his tone. Small towns and their insatiable appetite for gossip.

I tear it open, coffee forgotten as I pull out the glossy publication. My breath catches. Timberline dominates the cover—Hunter's hands preparing the mountain trout, steam rising from the cast iron pan, a dusting of pine ash visible on the wooden cutting board.

The headline reads: "Mountain Magic: The Hidden Culinary Gem That's Changing Destination Dining."

But it's the smaller text at the bottom that makes my heart stutter: "Plus: Chef Morgan's Grandfather's Secret Trout Recipe - A Taste of Heritage."

The recipe—the one Hunter taught me during our private cooking lesson—is the one I'd written up and sent to my editor as potential companion content to my review, never imagining she'd feature it so prominently.

"Oh no." The words escape in a whisper.

Darlene glances over as she refills my mug. "Bad news, honey?"

"I need to go." I throw bills on the counter, gathering my things in frantic motion. "Now."

The drive to Timberline takes seven minutes. It feels like seven hours. My mind races through scenarios, each worse than the last. Hunter seeing this as fresh betrayal. The fragile trust we'd begun rebuilding shattered beyond repair. His grandfather's cherished recipe exposed without permission.

The parking lot is filled to capacity, and a line of people waits outside the restaurant's entrance. My review and now this magazine feature have done exactly what Lucas wanted—brought attention—but at what cost?

I push through the crowd, ignoring the irritated murmurs as I bypass the line. The dining room is packed to capacity, servers weaving between the tables. A hostess I don’t recognize holds a tablet at the entrance, managing the growing waitlist.

"I need to see Hunter." My voice sounds breathless, even to my ears. "It's important."

She gives me the sympathetic but firm look of someone who's heard every possible line to skip the wait. "Chef Morgan is extremely busy. If you'd like to leave your name?—"

"Tell him it's Audrey. About the magazine."

Something in my expression must convey my desperation because she hesitates and then nods,

"Wait here."

Minutes stretch like taffy, sticky and uncomfortable.

Through the restaurant's windows, I watch the orchestrated chaos of a successful dinner service.

Miguel expedites at the pass. Line cooks move in synch.

And Hunter—focused, commanding, calling orders with the authority of a general on the battlefield.

The magazine feels heavy in my hands, evidence of another mistake I never intended to make.

The hostess returns, expression carefully neutral. "Chef Morgan can spare a moment. Follow me."

She leads me through the packed dining room.

Diners turn to stare, some recognizing me from my byline photo, others simply curious about who rates special treatment.

Near the kitchen entrance, Lucas Reid speaks animatedly with what appears to be a potential investor, his gestures expansive, face flushed with unexpected success.

The hostess shows me to Hunter's small office, a converted storage room adjacent to the kitchen. "He'll be with you shortly."

Alone, I examine the tiny space that holds pieces of Hunter's soul. Framed photos of his grandparents. Sketches for seasonal menu items. A shelf of well-worn cookbooks, spines cracked from frequent use. A small potted herb—thyme—growing beneath a desk lamp.

The door opens, and Hunter enters, chef's jacket spotted with the evidence of service, face lined with exhaustion but eyes bright with the adrenaline of a successful night.

"Audrey." My name on his lips sends electricity down my spine, even when weighed with wariness.

"I'm sorry." I thrust the magazine toward him like a confession. "I didn't know they would publish this. I sent it as background material for my editor, not for publication. Especially not like this."

He takes it and studies the cover silently. His expression reveals nothing as he flips to the article, scanning the pages with the efficiency of someone used to reading recipes at a glance.

"I would never have shared your grandfather's recipe without permission." The words tumble out, desperate and sincere. "I know what it means to you. How personal it is."

Hunter closes the magazine and sets it on his cluttered desk. The silence stretches between us, unbearable in its weight.

"They spelled my grandfather's name correctly."

Of all the responses I anticipated, that isn't one of them.

"What?"

"Here." He reopens the magazine and points to the introduction of the recipe. "They got it right. Charles Morgan. Most publications butcher it somehow. Make him Charles Moran or Charlie Morgan."

I stare at him, struggling to read his reaction. "You're not angry?"

A laugh escapes him, short and surprised. "About the magazine? No." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "About you leaving town without saying goodbye? Yes."

"Leaving?" My confusion is genuine. "I'm not leaving."

"Miguel said you checked out of The Haven this morning."

Understanding dawns. "I moved to Mabel's guest house. The Haven was getting... expensive."

Something shifts in Hunter's expression, a tension releasing. "So you're staying in Angel's Peak."

"Until you tell me to go." The admission costs me nothing; it's simply the truth. "You did tell me to stay. Or did I get that wrong?"

He studies me for a long moment, and his chef's assessment turns personal.

"The restaurant's insane tonight. Completely booked through the next two weeks. The phone hasn't stopped ringing."

"I noticed." I gesture toward the packed dining room beyond his door.

"Lucas is beside himself. He's had three different investor groups approach him today alone." A wry smile touches Hunter's lips. "Suddenly, my 'unmarketable' cooking style seems very marketable indeed."

Hope flutters in my chest, a tentative wing-beat. "That's good, right? For Timberline, for your vision?"

"It is." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the kitchen on him—herbs, smoke, and the particular aroma that belongs only to Hunter. "But there's something I need to know first."

My heart hammers against my ribs. "Anything."

"Why did you submit that particular recipe to your editor?"

It’s an unexpected question, but one I can answer honestly.

"Because it was perfect. It captured everything special about your cooking—respect for ingredients, connection to place, and technique in service of flavor rather than ego. Because..." I hesitate, then commit to honesty "because it reminds me of you."

He nods slowly as if confirming something to himself. "I need to get back to service. But afterward, can we talk?"

"Yes." The single syllable carries the weight of promises I intend to keep.

"Wait in the greenhouse. I'll find you when we're done."

Night transforms the greenhouse; moonlight filters through the glass to create patterns across the earthen floor. I move among the herbs and seedlings, brushing my fingers across lemon thyme and rosemary, the precious alpine varietals Hunter cultivates with such care.

Two hours pass before the door opens. Hunter enters, changed from his chef's whites into jeans and a soft flannel shirt, looking less armored.

"Sorry for the wait. Had to make sure Miguel had everything under control."

"It's fine. I've been keeping your plants company."

He smiles at that, a genuine smile that reaches his eyes. "They're good listeners. No judgment."

"Unlike food critics?" The self-deprecating joke slips out before I can reconsider.

"Some critics." He moves closer, stopping at the wooden workbench where this all began, where we first touched. "I wanted to thank you."

"For what?"

"The recipe credit. You made sure my grandfather's contribution was acknowledged. That matters to me."

I nod, throat tight with unexpected emotion. "His legacy deserves recognition."

"It does." Hunter studies me, eyes reflecting the moonlight streaming through glass panels.

"I love this place. What you've built here." I swallow hard, gathering courage. "I love you ."

The admission hangs between us, fragile as a soap bubble, iridescent with hope.

"I've been afraid to trust again." His voice drops, intimate as a confessional. "My ex-partner didn't just steal recipes. He took my confidence. He made me question my judgment, especially about people."

"I understand." And I do. The particular agony of trusting wrongly and the scars it leaves behind.

"But I've been thinking about something my grandmother said." He steps closer, close enough that I can see the fine lines around his eyes, evidence of laughter and sun. "About the difference between heat and warmth."

I wait, letting him find his way to whatever truth he discovered.

"Heat is instant. Intense. It burns bright but can cause damage if you're not careful." His hand lifts and hovers near my face without touching it. "Warmth sustains. Nurtures. Lasts through cold seasons."

My breath catches, hope expanding in my chest like bread dough in a warm kitchen.

"What we had that first night in the greenhouse was heat." His eyes don't leave mine. "What we built over the following days, cooking together, foraging, talking—that was the beginning of genuine warmth. The kind that can last if we let it."

"Hunter—" His name emerges half-whisper, half-prayer.

"I'm not ready to throw that away. No matter how it started." His fingers finally make contact, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "The local investment group made an offer. Partnership in Timberline. Creative control for me, financial backing from them."