Page 23 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)
The Perfect Blend
A ngel's Peak in Autumn is a painter’s dream—mountains ablaze with sunset colors; aspen leaves shimmering gold against evergreen, and the first dusting of snow on the highest peaks.
Standing at the kitchen window of the expanded Timberline, I pause to absorb the view that still takes my breath away, even after a year of waking to it daily.
"Admiring the scenery when we have prep to finish?" Hunter's voice carries no real reproach, only the comfortable teasing of partners who've found their rhythm.
"Inspiration." I turn to face him, warmth blooming in my chest at the sight of him in his element—sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms dusted with flour, confidence in every movement as he expertly crimps dough. "Some of us need it for creative work."
"And some of us need to finish these tarts before two hundred guests arrive." But he smiles, the crinkles around his eyes deepening in the way I've come to treasure.
The kitchen around us bustles with focused energy. Student chefs from the newly established Mountain Culinary Institute —Timberline's educational offshoot—move with purpose under Miguel's watchful eye.
What began as Hunter's dream of teaching traditional mountain cooking techniques has blossomed into a prestigious program with a waiting list two years long.
I move to my station, adjusting the camera setup for today's special episode of "Roots & Routes."
My culinary travel series has found its audience—people hungry for recipes and the stories behind them.
The network initially balked at my insistence on keeping Angel's Peak as my home base rather than relocating to New York, but the authenticity of filming where the food traditions live has become the show's trademark.
"How's the special sauce coming along?" Hunter appears beside me, sampling a spoonful of the pine-infused reduction I've been working on. His eyes close briefly in appreciation. "Perfect. Like everything you do."
"Flatterer." I bump his hip with mine, the casual intimacy between us now as natural as breathing. "You just want me to help with those tarts."
"Maybe." His hand finds the small of my back, warm through the fabric of my chef's whites. "Or maybe I just want an excuse to stand close to my almost-wife."
Almost-wife. The words still thrill me, even after months of engagement. Today—finally—I'll become Hunter Morgan's wife, and our journey from that first heated greenhouse encounter to partnership is complete in every sense.
The greenhouse.
Now transformed into the region’s most sought-after private dining space, the glass-walled structure connects to Timberline by a covered walkway.
We've preserved its original character while adding heat for winter, cooling for summer, and a single table that seats twenty beneath a canopy of climbing herbs and edible flowers.
Tonight, it will host our wedding reception after a sunset ceremony at Lookout Point.
"There's my favorite culinary power couple.
" Eleanor Morgan's voice precedes her into the kitchen, her diminutive frame carrying the authority of someone who's been feeding people for seven decades.
Hunter's grandmother has become my fiercest champion and gentlest critic.
"You two planning to cook through your own wedding? "
"Just finishing prep, Gran." Hunter drops a kiss on her weathered cheek. "Everything under control."
"So I see." She casts an expert eye over the organized chaos, nodding approval at the mise en place . "Remember when you couldn't boil water without burning it, Hunter James Morgan?"
"I was four, Gran."
"And stubborn as a mule even then." She winks at me. "Some things never change."
"Thank goodness for that." I accept her hug, breathing in the scent of lavender that always clings to her. "His stubbornness is why we're still here."
"That and your persistence." She pats my cheek affectionately. "Now, I'm going to supervise the flower arrangements because Lord knows those city florists have no idea what mountain blooms look like."
We watch her march determinedly toward the dining room, staff parting before her like the Red Sea.
"Hurricane Eleanor strikes again." Hunter slides an arm around my waist. "Poor florists don't stand a chance."
"Neither did we." I lean into him briefly before returning to work.
We move in tandem, anticipating each other's needs, passing utensils before they're requested, tasting and adjusting each other's creations with the synchronicity that comes from a year of cooking side by side.
The kitchen doors swing open to admit Lucas Reid, Hunter’s most determined ally. Under our culinary influence, and one spectacular wedding of the century, the Haven has become the region's premier destination, booked solid year-round.
"Chef." Lucas nods at Hunter, then me. "Final walkthrough complete. Everything's ready for tonight."
"Any issues?" Hunter hands me a spoonful of sauce to taste.
"Nothing our grandmother hasn't already identified and corrected." Lucas's dry tone hints at his humor. "I think she's arranged additional seating for the Johnson twins from the bakery."
"They're bringing the bread." I add a pinch of salt to the sauce and offer it back to Hunter for approval. "We can't have our bread suppliers sitting in the back."
"Of course not." Lucas glances at his watch. "Four hours until ceremony time. The kitchen seems ahead of schedule."
"We've got this." Hunter's confidence isn't bravado but earned certainty. "Go check on the bar setup. Mabel's bringing her homemade elderberry liqueur for the welcome cocktail."
Lucas departs, already tapping notes into his ever-present tablet.
“He’s almost human these days.” I seal containers of prepped ingredients, labeling each with precise instructions.
“Success will do that.” Hunter moves behind me, arms circling my waist as he rests his chin on my shoulder. “That, and the perfect woman.”
I pause, arching a brow.
“Amelia pulled off the wedding of the century in the middle of a blizzard, single-handedly putting The Haven on the national map. Premier wedding and food destination, thanks to her, and she managed to put a spring in his step…”
“And you?”
He presses a kiss just below my ear. “I found mine in a greenhouse, challenging my authority and blowing up my world one review at a time.”
A smile tugs at my lips.
“Speaking of which,” he murmurs, “your show’s ratings came in…”
"And?"
"Highest of the season. The network called while you were at the fitting. They're offering a three-year renewal with an increased production budget."
I turn in his arms, searching his face. "That means more travel. More time away from Angel's Peak. From you."
"Or more reason to come with you." His hands settle at my waist, thumbs tracing small circles. "Part-time, at least. Miguel can handle Timberline for stretches. The students would benefit from international perspectives."
"You'd do that?" The question emerges softly with wonder.
"We're partners, Audrey. In life, in business, in everything that matters." His forehead rests against mine. "Besides, I hear there are mountains with interesting culinary traditions all over the world."
"I love you." The words still feel new each time I say them, bright as fresh herbs.
"Good thing, since you're marrying me in a few hours." His smile turns playful. "Unless you're having second thoughts?"
"Not a chance, Chef Morgan." I rise on tiptoe to press a brief kiss to his lips. "I know a perfect pairing when I taste one."
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of activity.
Mabel arrives with her famous liqueur, stopping to fuss over how thin she thinks I look despite a year of Angel's Peak cooking.
Jackson Hart brings wild mushrooms he foraged at dawn, a wedding gift he insists on incorporating into the menu himself.
Maggie from the diner delivers her special blend of coffee beans, roasted precisely for our dessert course.
Amelia, my wedding planner, runs around making sure everything is perfect and on track.
In the midst of this beautiful chaos, I find myself alone in the greenhouse for a stolen moment of quiet.
The space has been transformed for tonight—tiny lights woven through herb trellises, the long table set with vintage china Hunter's grandmother contributed, each place marked with a handwritten card detailing the guest's connection to our story.
At the far end, partially hidden behind mature rosemary plants, sits a new addition: a small nursery section with tiny seedlings in miniature pots—baby herbs, as Hunter calls them—each one labeled with care and protected by specialized glass to maintain its perfect growing environment.
My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach. The secret I've been keeping for three weeks, waiting for the perfect moment to share with Hunter.
"There you are." His voice draws me from contemplation. "The team's looking for final approval on the amuse-bouche plating."
"It's beautiful in here." I turn to face him, taking in how handsome he looks even in work clothes, his presence still capable of quickening my pulse after all this time. "Everything we dreamed."
He crosses to me, eyes softening as he registers my mood. "Second thoughts after all?"
"The opposite." I take his hands in mine, drawing him to the nursery section. "I added something to our greenhouse. A new project."
His brow furrows as he examines the careful setup, the tiny seedlings breaking through the soil.
"Baby herbs? I thought we were waiting until after the expansion to start the rare varietals program."
"These aren't just any seedlings." I guide his hand to my abdomen, watching comprehension dawn in his eyes. "These are symbolic ones. For our own little seedling."
Time suspends as he processes my meaning, his expression transforming from confusion to wonder to incandescent joy.
"You're pregnant?" The words emerge in a whisper, reverent and awed.