Page 6 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)

Professional Deception

I can’t write this.

Not objectively. Not after what we did.

Two nights of mind-bending, hot-as-sin sex with the chef I’m supposed to be evaluating, and now I’m staring at a hotel notepad covered in half-sentences and smeared ink.

My notes are useless. My integrity—shattered.

My self-control? Left somewhere on a greenhouse floor, tangled in my bra and panties.

The curtains stir with the draft from the window, shadows shifting across the paper like judgment.

I drop the pen, suddenly nauseous. This was supposed to be a job. A review. A quiet escape.

Not this.

Not him.

I need distance. Perspective.

Tossing the notepad aside, I pull on slim-fitting jeans, a cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, and leather ankle boots. The mirror reveals a woman I barely recognize—cheeks flushed, eyes bright with a vitality I haven't felt in years.

This mountain air is having an effect on me. Or, it's not the air at all.

Angel's Peak awaits beyond the Haven's rustic luxury. Time to see what this town is really about.

The main street curves gently around the mountain's base, a postcard-perfect arrangement of storefronts with hand-painted signs and window boxes bursting with late summer blooms. Locals move unhurriedly, pausing to chat on corners, a rhythm of life calibrated to the mountains rather than city deadlines.

Maggie's Diner beckons from the far end—a gleaming chrome-and-red establishment that looks transported directly from 1956. The neon sign hums with electric blue promise, claiming "Best Pie in the Rockies" in sweeping script.

A bell chimes cheerfully above my head as I enter. The aroma hits first—coffee with nutmeg undertones, butter browning on the grill, the sweet perfume of baked fruit and sugar. My critic's nose identifies five distinct pies before I've even spotted them in the rotating display case.

Silence falls like a curtain dropping. Ten pairs of eyes—belonging to men in work-worn flannel, women with weather-lined faces, and a teenager wiping down the counter—all turn to assess the stranger in their midst.

"Take any seat you like, honey." The waitress—sixty-something, with improbably red hair piled high—slides a laminated menu across the counter.

I choose a booth by the window, sliding across vinyl seats that squeak in protest. Condensation beads on stainless steel water pitchers. Silverware gleams under fluorescent lights. Everything is spotless, timeless, and preserved like an exhibit of small-town Americana.

The conversation around me gradually resumes as locals return to their coffee and concerns.

"Haven's brought in three new families this month alone." A man in a park ranger uniform gestures with his fork. "Twin Pines hasn't seen that kind of interest from outsiders since the mine was operating."

His companion’s weathered face, hands spotted with what looks like paint, nods sagely. "It's that restaurant. Timberline's getting write-ups in Denver papers now. The Haven’s booked for weddings out for a year."

"Heard they might even get one of those big-city critics coming through." The ranger leans back, hooks a thumb under his belt.

My coffee cup freezes halfway to my lips.

"Lord help us if they get a bad review." The waitress rejoins the conversation, leaning against the counter. "Half the shops on Main only stay afloat because of Haven guests wandering down to browse."

"Morgan wouldn't let that happen. Reid either.

Those two are doing everything they can to revitalize this town.

" The ranger says this with such confidence that something twists in my chest. "Hunter’s got more talent in his pinky finger than most chefs have in their whole body. Reid’s got his girl pulling in high-profile wedding clients from all across the country…

across the globe. Between the two of them, they understand what this place needs. "

I lower my gaze to the menu, heat creeping up my neck. The weight of responsibility presses against my ribs. It's not just a restaurant at stake. It's an ecosystem—fragile, interdependent.

Stop it, Audrey.

I’ve never let sentiment cloud my judgment before.

The readers of Palette depend on my unflinching assessments. My reputation—The Executioner—was earned through brutal honesty, not soft-hearted indulgence for struggling communities clinging to nostalgia and sub-par beignets.

But the coffee tastes different here.

Deeper. Earthier. Like it was roasted over pinewood and memory.

Like the air and the quiet and the man whose fingerprints I can still feel on my skin.

The waitress—Maggie, according to her slightly crooked name tag—sets a plate down in front of me with a conspiratorial smile.

“On the house, first-timer. Can’t come to Angel’s Peak without trying our berries.”

Huckleberry pie. I should be wary—small-town charm rarely translates to exceptional pastry. But the crust gives beneath my fork with the right kind of resistance, crumbling at the edge, still tender at the base.

I take a bite.

The berries explode across my tongue—wild and imperfect and alive. Bright acidity softened by sun and sugar. A crust that tastes of butter and cold hands. A filling that hasn’t seen the inside of a measuring cup.

I close my eyes.

The flavor doesn’t beg for approval. It just exists. Honest. Undone. Like everything here.

I chew slowly. Swallow. And hate how much I feel.

"That's what I thought." Maggie's laugh is warm and knowing. "Hunter gets his berries from the same patch. My husband's family's been harvesting them for generations."

My professional interest sparks. "For Timberline?"

"Sure. He uses all local stuff. Keeps half this town in business, truth be told." She tops off my coffee. "That boy understands food is about connection. Not just fancy technique."

I manage a noncommittal hum, thumbs moving over my phone screen.

Local sourcing confirmed. Strong community integration. Flavor-forward simplicity.

I add a line under it:

Maggie’s deserves a standalone review. Possibly feature column.

I take another bite of pie, and the guilt lands heavier than the fork in my hand. The crust is still warm, the filling just loose enough to bleed slightly at the edges—a balance that shouldn’t happen by accident. There’s intent in this baking. Heart. History.

Finishing it feels almost illicit.

Every bite pulls me deeper into the fabric of this town—the soft clink of ceramic, the hiss of a stovetop behind the pass, the low murmur of conversations between people who’ve known each other for decades. It’s not just comfort food. It’s belonging, served by the slice.

And layered beneath it all, like a wine note I can’t un-taste, is him.

Chef Hunter Morgan.

A man who cooks with the kind of control I usually respect, and the kind of raw heat that wrecks me.

I can’t stop thinking about his hands—how they plated lamb with surgical precision, and how they dug into my hips like I was his last meal.

After a stroll down mainstream and a short hike along a babbling brook that turns into a quaint mountain stream, I find myself back at The Haven and dinner.

Timberline hums with Friday night energy when I return. I've changed into a simple black dress that hugs my curves without announcing them, paired with understated gold jewelry.

Professional. Detached.

That's my mantra as I enter.

The hostess offers me a table, but I shake my head. "I'll sit at the bar tonight." A better vantage point for observation. Less formal. Less like a critic circling for the kill.

The bartender—bearded, with intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses—slides a cocktail menu my way. "First time at Timberline?"

"Second, actually." I scan the room, noting the perfectly timed dance of servers, the sound level indicating happy diners, the way the setting sun gilds everything through the massive windows. "I couldn't stay away."

"That's what they all say." He grins, preparing a gin-based cocktail for another guest. His movements are precise and economical. "Chef's got a way of making sure you come back."

Don't I know it.

I order a glass of local pinot noir from a local vineyard and read the bio about the vineyard.

Silverleaf Vineyards: Angel's Peak's high-altitude terrain creates wines with distinctive character—bright acidity, intense fruit notes, and a complexity that surprises even the most discerning palates.

Silverleaf Vineyards sits at 6,500 feet, nestled against the dramatic backdrop of the Rocky Mountains, where the harsh conditions create both exceptional wine and resilient people.

Hunter abides by his locally sourced principles, even in his wines. I’m no sommelier, but this is some of the best wine I’ve ever tasted.

I swirl the ruby liquid while pretending to check emails. My peripheral vision catalogs everything: the balance of the room, the pacing of courses, the expressions of diners as they taste their first bites.

The kitchen door swings open, and there he is.

Hunter commands his domain with the same intensity he brought to our encounters. A white chef’s coat emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, his dark hair pushed back from his forehead, as his eyes focus on examining a plate before it leaves the pass. Authority radiates from him in palpable waves.

His gaze sweeps the dining room—a captain checking his ship—and locks onto mine.

Recognition. Heat. Challenge.

I don't look away. Can't look away.

He murmurs something to his sous chef and makes his way across the restaurant, navigating between tables with athletic grace. At the same time, my heart performs a complicated gymnastic routine against my ribs.

"Ms. Tristan." He stops beside me, close enough that I catch his scent—rosemary, heat, male. "Returned for another sampling?"

"Professional curiosity." I take a slow sip of wine, letting it linger on my tongue before swallowing. "Your reputation intrigues me."

"My reputation only?" His voice drops low—a private timbre meant only for me. It slides beneath my skin like silk drawn over bare flesh.