Page 8 of Matched with the Small Town Chef (Angel’s Peak #4)

Mountain Revelations

T he wooden lodge entrance glows amber in the early morning light as I check my watch for the third time in five minutes. Seven fifty-eight. My breath puffs visible in the mountain chill, dissipating into nothing against the cloudless blue sky.

I'm nervous.

Not the calculated tension before conducting a critical review, but something fluttery and adolescent that I haven't felt in years.

A forest-green Jeep Wrangler with mud-spattered sides rounds the corner precisely at eight. Hunter sits behind the wheel, sunglasses reflecting the morning light, his profile sharp against the mountain backdrop. My heart performs an embarrassing little skip.

He steps out, dressed in worn hiking boots, jeans that hug his muscular thighs, and a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled to expose corded forearms. So different from the commanding chef in whites, yet equally magnetic.

"Morning." He takes in my outfit—premium hiking pants, merino wool top, and boots that have never seen actual dirt. "You'll do."

"I wasn't aware there was a dress code." I slide into the passenger seat, catching the scent of pine and coffee.

"For where we're going, there is." He hands me a thermos. "Black, one sugar. Right?"

The fact that he's noticed how I take my coffee sends an unwelcome warmth through my chest.

"Should I be concerned about your plans?" I unscrew the cap, inhaling the rich aroma.

"Scared?" His eyebrow arches above his sunglasses.

"Cautious." I take a sip, the coffee is perfect. "I'm not exactly the outdoorsy type."

"City girl through and through?" The Jeep rumbles to life, engine vibrating beneath us.

"New York for the last decade." No need to mention the dozens of other cities I've visited for reviews. "Concrete and taxis are more my natural habitat."

His laugh is unexpected, genuine. "Then you're in for an education."

We climb steadily along winding mountain roads, the Haven growing smaller in the side mirror. Hunter drives with the easy confidence of someone who knows every curve and dip intimately. His hands rest loosely on the wheel, strong and capable.

The same hands that explored my body last night. Heat rises to my cheeks at the memory.

"First stop." He pulls into a graveled overlook where a wooden sign proclaims, "Lookout Point - Elevation 8,743 ft."

The view steals my breath more effectively than the altitude. The valley spreads below us in a tapestry of emerald forest and silver ribbons of water, framed by jagged peaks still wearing patches of snow despite the summer season.

"Best view in the county." A ranger in a tan uniform approaches, clipboard in hand. "Morning, Hunter."

"Steve." Hunter nods in greeting. "Conditions good today?"

"Clear through early afternoon. We're expecting a front to move in around two." The ranger checks his watch. "Make sure you're down by then. Weather changes fast up here."

"Always does." Hunter turns to me. "Steve's grandfather taught mine how to track elk through these mountains."

"Been here long?" I ask, curiosity about Hunter's past overriding my professional detachment.

"Seven generations." Hunter's voice carries pride. "My family helped found Angel's Peak when the railroad came through."

This connection to place and history is foreign to me. My rootless existence—moving from city to city, restaurant to restaurant—suddenly seems hollow by comparison.

We leave the ranger and drive higher, eventually turning onto a dirt road barely wider than the Jeep itself. When even this peters out, Hunter parks beneath a massive pine.

"From here, we walk." He retrieves a backpack from behind his seat. "You good with that?"

"Lead the way." I adjust my ponytail, oddly determined to prove I'm not some helpless urbanite.

The trail is narrow, climbing through stands of aspen whose leaves shimmer like coins in the morning light. Hunter moves with the sureness of someone following a path etched in memory, rather than one marked on the earth.

We stop at a small clearing where the ground is carpeted with tiny white flowers. Hunter kneels, examining them with reverent fingers.

"Alpine strawberry. Impossible to cultivate commercially." He picks one and offers it to me. "Taste."

The berry is warm from the sun, bursting with an intensity that makes commercially grown varieties taste like pale imitations.

"This is what food should be." His voice drops, passionate. "Experienced in its place, at its peak moment of perfection."

He fills a small cloth bag with berries, explaining each plant we encounter, which are edible, which are medicinal, which are sacred to the indigenous people who first inhabited these mountains.

We discover a patch of morel mushrooms nestled in the shadow of a fallen log. Hunter's hands move as he harvests them, leaving enough to spread their spores.

"I come here every spring. Never tell anyone the location." He glances up at me. "You're the first person I've brought."

The significance of this admission settles between us, weighted with intimacy that has nothing to do with our physical encounters.

"Why me?" The question escapes before I can reconsider.

He stands, morels carefully stowed in his pack. "Because you understand the language of food. I could see it in your eyes when you tasted that first dish at Timberline. You get it."

Guilt squeezes my chest. Would he be so open if he knew my real purpose here?

The path narrows as we continue higher, wildflowers dotting the alpine meadows in explosive bursts of color. Hunter points out edible plants—wild onion, mountain sorrel, tiny sprigs of thyme growing improbably from rocky crevices.

We round a bend and freeze. Twenty yards ahead, a massive bull moose raises his enormous rack, regarding us with suspicious eyes.

"Don't move." Hunter's body shifts imperceptibly, positioning himself between me and the animal.

The moose snorts, pawing the ground. My heart hammers against my ribs. The creature is magnificent and terrifying—all muscle and wild intention, completely beyond human control.

Slowly, deliberately, Hunter raises his arms to appear larger, never breaking eye contact with the moose. "Back up. Very slowly."

I inch backward, hyperaware of every twig and stone beneath my boots. The moose watches, deciding.

After an eternity compressed into seconds, the animal turns away, ambling into the forest with surprising grace for something so massive.

My breath releases in a rush. "That was?—"

"Close." Hunter's arm remains extended protectively in front of me, his body a shield. Only when the moose disappears does he lower it, but he stays close, scanning the trees.

Something shifts inside me at this instinctive protectiveness. This isn't the calculated charm of men who've pursued me in the past—restaurant owners seeking favorable reviews, chefs looking to leverage my connections. This is primal, unthinking. Real.

"Thank you." I touch his arm, feeling muscle still tensed beneath flannel.

"Bull moose in rut don't mess around." His eyes soften as they find mine. "You okay?"

"Better than okay." And I mean it.

Adrenaline courses through me, every sense heightened. I feel more alive than I have in years of dining at the world's finest restaurants.

The sky darkens abruptly as we make our way back down the mountain, clouds gathering with alarming speed above the peaks. Wind whips through the trees, temperature dropping noticeably with each gust.

"Steve wasn't kidding about that weather front." Hunter glances at his watch, concern creasing his brow. "We need to move faster."

The first fat raindrops hit as we cross an exposed ridge, quickly intensifying to a driving sheet that reduces visibility to mere yards. Thunder cracks overhead, too close for comfort.

"The Jeep's too far." Hunter takes my hand, grip firm. "One of Jackson Hart's cabins is just over that rise. We can wait it out there."

We half-run, half-slide down a muddy path I wouldn't have noticed without him. The temperature plummets as hail begins mixing with the rain, stinging exposed skin.

The cabin materializes through the downpour—a basic stone structure with a small covered porch. Hunter retrieves a key from beneath a hollowed log that says ‘Key HERE,’ and ushers me inside.

"Hiker's shelter. He has several scattered around the mountains." He shuts the door against the howling wind. "Basic, but it'll keep us alive."

The interior is smaller than my bathroom at the Haven—a single cot, a tiny wood stove, and shelves stocked with emergency supplies. Hunter moves, searching the shelves. He finds what he’s looking for and strikes a match to kindling already laid in the stove.

"Who's Jackson Hart?" I wrap my arms around myself, shivering as the adrenaline fades.

"Local legend. Built these shelters all over the mountain after his fiancée died in an accident." Hunter feeds small logs into the growing flame. "There's a change of clothes in that trunk. Nothing fancy, but they're dry."

The trunk yields thick wool socks, flannel shirts, and thermal leggings that smell of cedar. I turn my back to change, suddenly shy despite our previous intimacy.

The stove gradually warms the small space, our wet clothes steaming on a makeshift line strung across one corner. Outside, the storm rages with increasing fury, hail replaced by snow that shouldn't be falling this early in September.

"We could be here a while." Hunter sits on the edge of the cot, leaving space for me. "Might as well get comfortable."