Page 3 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)

Professional Shock

T he hostess leads me through Timberline's dining room, her burgundy dress swishing softly against the polished hardwood floors.

Exposed wooden beams stretch across the vaulted ceilings, supporting wrought-iron chandeliers that cast a warm, honeyed glow over the space.

The scent of cedar mingles with hints of rosemary and thyme, underlining the rustic elegance that permeates every detail.

"Your table, Ms. Evans." She gestures to a prime corner spot beside floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the mountains like living art. Jagged peaks pierce the dusky sky, their snow-capped summits turning rose-gold in the setting sun.

"Thank you." I settle into the buttery leather chair, noting how it's positioned to maximize both the view and privacy. Perfect for a critic who needs to observe without being observed.

The table itself speaks of understated luxury—heavy silverware that catches the light, hand-thrown ceramic plates in earthy blues and greens, linen napkins so crisp they crackle when unfolded. My fingers trace the grain of the wooden table, feeling the natural texture beneath a satin finish.

A server approaches, his movements fluid and unobtrusive. "Welcome to Timberline. May I bring you something to drink while you review our menu?"

"Sparkling water for now, thank you." Professional mode engaged. I've done this hundreds of times, yet anticipation still tightens in my chest. Each new restaurant holds the potential for brilliance or disappointment.

He nods approvingly. "Mr. Reid has spared no expense for this space. The tables were crafted by local artisans from reclaimed timber."

Lodge owner Lucas Reid's reputation precedes him—hospitality mogul turned mountain recluse, pouring millions into this remote property. The investment shows in every detail, from the custom leather chairs to the hand-blown glass light fixtures.

"The chef has created something special here." The server returns with water in a cobalt blue bottle, condensation beading on its surface. "He works exclusively with farms within fifty miles. The microgreens come from our greenhouse."

The greenhouse.

Heat crawls up my neck at the memory of yesterday's encounter. Hunter’s calloused hands pinning my wrists above my head against the foggy glass.

The urgent press of his body—hard, demanding—as he lifted me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The way he looked at me, hunger darkening his eyes to midnight, before claiming my mouth like a man starved.

I’ve never surrendered so completely, never felt so thoroughly possessed by someone whose name I didn't even know.

Six more days in Angel's Peak stretch before me—six days of knowing he's here, somewhere, perhaps thinking about me too.

My body tightens at the thought of another encounter, another chance to explore this inexplicable chemistry.

The way his fingers dug into my hips, possessive and commanding, awakened something primal in me—a curiosity about what it might be like if he stopped holding back, if he took complete control.

If he claimed me entirely.

"Our beef is from Highland Ranch—grass-fed, dry-aged for forty-five days. The mushrooms are foraged from these very mountains by Chef Morgan himself."

I take a sip of water to cool the flush warming my cheeks. "I'll have the chef's tasting menu."

"Excellent choice."

When he departs, I discreetly retrieve my phone, opening the notes app beneath the table. Professional distance. That's what I need now. I came to Angel's Peak to evaluate Timberline, not to dwell on a momentary lapse in judgment with a stranger.

The first course arrives—a delicate amuse-bouche nestled in a spoon carved from mountain stone. Smoked trout mousse topped with trout roe and microgreens. The flavors burst across my tongue—smoky, briny, herbaceous—a perfect encapsulation of mountain and stream.

Two more courses follow, each more impressive than the last. A chilled spring pea soup is poured tableside over compressed apple and mint, and then a perfectly seared scallop, topped with carrot purée and accompanied by brown butter foam.

The attention to detail is remarkable, the flavors clean and precise.

I'm midway through the fourth course—elk tartare with pickled ramps and juniper aioli—when a ripple of energy passes through the dining room. Conversations soften, heads turn, and the staff straightens imperceptibly.

The chef has emerged.

He moves from table to table, greeting guests with confidence and warmth.

Tall and broad-shouldered in his crisp white jacket, he commands the space effortlessly.

Something about his posture, the way he tilts his head while listening to a diner's comments, triggers a flutter of recognition in my chest.

When he turns toward my section, the flutter becomes a stampede.

Hunter.

The man from the greenhouse stands twenty feet away, speaking with an elderly couple at the next table.

His dark hair is neatly combed now—no longer mussed by my fingers, no trace of the raw, hungry man who had me spread across a workbench hours ago.

His face is composed, professional. Almost indifferent.

But then his gaze finds mine.

Recognition hits like a jolt. A flash of surprise—brief—quickly replaced by something darker. Hungrier.

Like he’s remembering the taste of my skin, and the way I sounded when he made me beg.

That look doesn’t belong in a dining room. It belongs in the shadows. In bedsheets. In heat.

My breath catches, and I forget how to move.

His pupils dilate, a barely perceptible change from across the room, but one I feel like a physical touch. A hint of a smile touches the corner of his mouth—not the polished one he's been offering other diners, but something private and hungry.

Heat radiates from his gaze as it sweeps slowly down my body and back up, a silent reminder that he knows exactly what I look like beneath my silk blouse. Within seconds, his features smooth into careful neutrality, but the message has been sent. He's found me again, and he's far from disappointed.

My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird. Of all the restaurants in all the mountain towns in America, I had to walk into his.

He approaches my table with measured steps, as if giving us both time to prepare.

"Welcome to Timberline." His voice carries no hint of our previous encounter, though his knuckles whiten slightly where they grip the back of the empty chair across from me. "I understand this is your first time dining with us, Ms. Tristan ."

"Yes, my first time." The double meaning hangs between us, unacknowledged.

"I hope you're enjoying the tasting menu so far." His professional smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, which remain fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

"The elk tartare is exceptional." I gesture to my half-finished plate, grateful for something to discuss that isn't the press of his body against mine, the taste of his mouth, the sound of his breathing as it quickened against my ear.

"Thank you. We dry-age the elk loin before preparing the tartare. The juniper berries are gathered on the property."

A server approaches with a question, and Hunter—Chef Morgan—steps slightly away to address it.

The moment gives me space to breathe, to gather my scattered thoughts. Yesterday, I wrapped my legs around this man's waist as he fucked me senseless. Today, I'm evaluating his culinary skills for a review that could make or break his restaurant.

He returns his attention to me. "I'd like to send out something special for your next course. A dish I've been working on that's not yet on the menu."

"That's not necessary." The last thing I need is special treatment that might compromise my objectivity.

"I insist." His tone brooks no argument, though a muscle ticks in his jaw. "I want to ensure your first experience at Timberline is... memorable."

"It's already been memorable in more ways than one." The words slip out before I can stop them, my voice dropping to ensure only he can hear.

His eyes darken, the professional mask slipping just enough to reveal the man from the greenhouse.

"That's nice to hear." The timbre of his voice changes, deepening to the intimate register that whispered heated promises against my neck.

"I had an interesting day myself. Something unexpected.

Out of the ordinary." He leans slightly closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Something I hope to taste again."

Heat pools low in my belly, my body responding to his proximity like a tuning fork struck at the perfect frequency.

"I’d like that." No reason to be shy. I gave this man my body before I gave him my name.

When he departs, I drain my water glass, wishing it contained something stronger. The surrounding tables resume their conversations, but I catch fragments about Timberline and its importance to Angel's Peak.

"...saved the town after the ski resort closed..." "...jobs for local farmers..." "...finally putting us on the map..."

The weight of responsibility settles heavily on my shoulders. The Executioner, they call me in industry circles. For my ruthless assessments that have closed more than one ambitious establishment. But those were faceless chefs in anonymous kitchens, not a man whose taste I still carry on my tongue.

The special course arrives—venison loin, perfectly medium-rare, with huckleberry reduction, confit potatoes, and truffle foam.

The presentation is a study in controlled elegance, with flavors that are harmonious yet surprising.

It's brilliant, innovative cooking that would impress me under any circumstances.

I force myself to analyze it objectively—the technical precision, the balance of flavors, the thoughtful sourcing—but my critical faculties keep stuttering against memories of strong hands, hungry mouths, and a cock that shouldn’t be legal.

Desire coils hot and tight, low in my belly. I’ve never had sex like that. Sex with a stranger. Sex that blew my mind. Sex where I came hard and heady.

The venison remains half-eaten when I signal for the check.

"No dessert, Ms. Tristan?" My server appears concerned.

"Another time, perhaps." I offer a reassuring smile. "A sudden migraine. Please convey my compliments to the chef."

Coward.

But I need space to think, to separate the professional from the personal before I can properly evaluate this meal.

I leave enough cash to cover the bill and a generous tip, then make my escape without looking toward the kitchen. The cool mountain air clears my head somewhat as I stride back to my room, gravel crunching beneath my boots.

The Haven's winding paths are lit by copper lanterns, their flames dancing in the gentle evening breeze. Stars hang impossibly close in the clear mountain sky, brilliant against velvet darkness. Under different circumstances, I might find it romantic.

My room welcomes me with its rustic comfort—patchwork quilt, river-stone fireplace, the faint scent of pine and beeswax. I kick off my boots and collapse onto the bed, staring at the exposed beam ceiling.

What are the odds?

What cosmic joke placed Hunter Morgan's restaurant on my review schedule after placing his body in my arms?

His cock in my…

What am I supposed to do now? Recuse myself? That would mean admitting what happened. Write the review anyway? That would require an objectivity I'm not sure I can muster.

A soft knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts.

"Yes?" I call, not moving from the bed.

"Delivery for Ms. Tristan." A female voice, likely front desk staff.

I drag myself up and open the door to find a young woman holding a cream-colored envelope.

"This was left for you at reception." She hands it over with a professional smile.

Alone again, I turn the envelope in my hands. High-quality paper, weighty and textured. My name is written in a bold, slashing hand. No return address.

The note inside is brief, the ink still slightly damp:

"I need to see you. Meet me at the greenhouse. Midnight. Don't be late. -H."

I press the paper between my fingers, feeling the impression of his pen strokes, the urgency behind them. The command in those five words—"don't be late"—sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the mountain chill.

He probably wants more free sex. Using me for convenient pleasure while I'm in town.

The thought should offend my professional sensibilities, but instead, it ignites something dark and hungry within me.

No one knows me here. Not really. Not as Audrey Tristan, feared critic who holds restaurateurs' futures in her perfectly manicured hands.

Here, I could be anyone. Do anything. Explore the forbidden corners of desire I've never dared acknowledge in my carefully constructed city life.

Especially with a man like Hunter, who issues commands as naturally as breathing and has them hand-delivered like edicts from on high. A man whose very presence makes me want to yield in ways I never have before.

I should ignore it. Pack my bags. Request a different assignment.

Instead, I reach for my jacket, already knowing I'll go. Midnight suddenly feels too far away.