Page 7 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)

The bartender picks up on the shift, retreating down the bar, suddenly obsessed with polishing nonexistent smudges from a row of glasses at the far end.

"I'm very thorough in my research." I trail a fingertip along the rim of my glass, then down the stem, slow and deliberate. His eyes follow the movement like he’s imagining my touch on something else entirely. "I like to understand what I'm... consuming."

A muscle in his jaw tightens. Just once. Controlled. But I feel it in my core.

"And your findings so far?" There’s an edge beneath the calm, a tension coiled in his tone that thrums between us like a live wire.

"Promising." I meet his gaze, steady. Heat shimmering just beneath the surface. "But inconclusive. I need more... evidence."

He leans against the bar, reducing the space between us by dangerous degrees, slow enough to feel deliberate, close enough that I can smell him: salt, citrus, heat. The space between us shrinks, charged and trembling.

"Well, you have a date at midnight, but if you really want more , I’m off Sunday. Let me show you the real Angel's Peak experience."

Professional boundaries scream in warning, howling inside my skull. This is reckless. Dangerous. Delicious.

"I don't think that would be appropriate." But the protest lands weakly between us, laced with want.

"More appropriate than meeting at midnight in my greenhouse?" The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile that sends heat spiraling through my core. It lands like a spark in dry brush.

"That was before I knew who you were."

His hand comes to rest on the bar—inches from mine. Not touching. Almost worse. The space between us crackles with restraint.

"And now that you know?" His hand rests on the bar, inches from mine. Not touching. The absence of contact is somehow more intimate than a caress.

I glance at his fingers. Long. Strong. Capable. I remember how they felt inside me. How I came apart around them.

"Now it's complicated."

His gaze dips to my mouth. Stays there.

"It's honest." His eyes darken. "Sunday. Eight AM. I'll pick you up at the lodge entrance."

He straightens, and the loss of his nearness is a physical thing. I grip the stem of my glass tighter to keep from leaning forward.

The look he gives me before turning away is molten.

Not a question. Not a request.

An invitation I already know I’ll accept.

My mouth opens to refuse. What emerges is: "Yes, chef."

"You’ve got to stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"You know damn well what." He eyes me with heat and hunger.

"Is that so?"

"Yes…" He leans down, whispering in my ear. "Be careful which buttons you push, or you may find yourself in a very compromising position."

My heart just about trips over itself.

"I’ll keep that in mind." I could push the conversation, see where it leads, but something tells me to pull back. The lead is not mine to take.

"Enjoy your evening, Ms. Tristan. I'll send over something special." A nod. Satisfaction. He pushes away from the bar, all business again.

I watch him return to the kitchen, heart hammering.

What am I doing?

This isn't just blurring the line between personal and professional—it's erasing it entirely.

The restaurant continues its choreographed ballet around me. Two men at a corner table lean toward each other in serious conversation. One is impeccably dressed in what I recognize as bespoke tailoring—gestures with authority. Lucas Reid, I presume. The lodge owner.

Hunter joins them briefly, shoulders tense under his white coat. The Reid claps him on the shoulder in what appears to be encouragement, but something in Hunter's expression suggests concern beneath his professional mask.

A server delivers an unmarked plate to me—five perfect bites arranged in a geometric pattern that would make a Michelin inspector weep. "Chef's special creation. Not on the menu."

Each bite tells a story of the mountains: smoked trout with foraged ramp custard; venison tartare with juniper and huckleberry; a wild mushroom tart that dissolves on the tongue; alpine herb sorbet that tastes of sunlight on meadows; a miniature chokecherry tart that balances sweetness with untamed tang.

"It's a progression through the seasons of Angel's Peak." The sous chef appears beside me, pride evident as she watches me taste. Mid-thirties, with a sleeve of tattoos visible beneath her rolled-up whites. "Chef Morgan’s been working on this concept for months."

I make appreciative noises, professional critique momentarily forgotten in pure gustatory pleasure.

"This place means everything to him," she continues, eyes following her boss as he expedites at the pass. "To all of us, really. The Haven might look like a rich man's playground, but for locals, Timberline represents hope. Economic survival."

She's gone before I can respond, called back to her station by some kitchen urgency.

I observe Hunter through new eyes as the evening progresses. The way he coaches a young line cook through a mistake rather than berating him. His insistence on personally inspecting dishes for a customer with severe allergies. The respect—not fear—his staff shows him.

This isn't just a chef building a reputation. This is a man building a community.

By the time I leave, my notebook is filled with observations that have nothing to do with food execution and everything to do with the man behind the cuisine. Dangerous territory for a critic known for her objectivity.

The greenhouse glows with soft amber light when I arrive at midnight, as instructed in his text. Condensation beads on glass walls, creating a dreamlike veil between this space and the real world.

Hunter stands between rows of exotic herbs, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms corded with muscle as he transplants seedlings. He doesn't look up at my entrance.

"You're on time." His voice carries in the humid air.

"I'm always punctual for appointments." I move toward him, drawn by forces I still can't name. "Professional habit."

"Is that what this is? Professional?" He finally raises his eyes to mine, intensity burning away pretense.

"Nothing about this is professional." My admission hangs between us.

In three strides, he's before me. No words. No preamble. His mouth claims mine with devastating precision, tasting of mint and man and unchecked hunger.

My body responds instantly, molten heat pooling low in my belly. I grasp his shoulders, fingertips digging into hard muscle as he walks me backward until I feel the edge of a wooden table against my thighs.

"I've been thinking about this all night." His words rumble against my throat as he trails fire down my neck. "Watching you at that bar, pretending we're strangers."

"We are strangers." I gasp as his teeth graze my collarbone.

His laugh is dark, knowing. "Your body doesn't think so."

He lifts me onto the table, stepping between my thighs. My dress rides up, his hands find bare skin, and all coherent thought evaporates in the greenhouse heat.

There's none of the tenderness of our first encounter. None of the exploration of our second. This is raw need, primal and demanding. Claiming and being claimed.

When it's over, we're both breathing hard, skin damp with exertion and the humid air. Reality filters back slowly. What I've done. What I'm still doing.

"Sunday." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the gentle gesture at odds with the fierce possession of moments before. "Eight AM."

I climb down from the table on shaky legs, adjusting my clothing with as much dignity as possible. "This can't happen again."

"It already has. Three times." He steps back, giving me space.

"I'm establishing boundaries." I move toward the door.

"Too late for that." His smile isn't unkind. "We're way past boundaries. Or, rather, it’s time to start exploring what boundaries we each have."

I have no response because he's right. We're in uncharted territory now.

"As you wish."

Back in my room, I shower away the evidence of our encounter but not the memory. Opening my laptop, I stare at the blank document that should contain my preliminary notes on Timberline.

The cursor blinks accusingly.

What exactly are you going to say, Audrey?

That the chef has magic hands in more ways than one? That you can't trust your judgment because you're sleeping with the subject of your review?

A ping from my phone interrupts my self-flagellation. A text from my editor: "Found something interesting about your mountain chef."

My stomach drops as I click the link. The screen fills with an article from three years ago—the dramatic closure of an upscale Denver restaurant. Bankruptcy. Lawsuits from investors. And at the center of it all, a promising young chef named Hunter Morgan.

The accompanying message makes my blood run cold: "Look familiar? Think there's a pattern with our mountain chef?"

I stare at Hunter's younger face in the article photo, wondering exactly what I've gotten myself into—and what secrets he's keeping behind those intense eyes that seem to see right through my professional deception.