Page 1 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

1

Steamy Encounter

As I climb higher into the Colorado Rockies, the winding mountain road narrows. My rental car hugs curves that grow increasingly tight. A sign announces "Angel's Peak - Elevation 7,623 ft" as pine trees part to reveal a vista so breathtaking it forces me to pull onto a scenic overlook.

Mountains stretch into forever, jagged peaks piercing a sky so deeply blue it seems artificial, like something from a travel brochure promising more than reality could possibly deliver.

But this viewdelivers.

I step out, the thin air immediately filling my lungs with something purer than I've breathed in years. The late afternoon sun ignites the mountainsides, painting them in gold light that will too soon fade. My phone buzzes in my pocket – my editor again, no doubt, demanding updates on a review I haven't even begun. I silence it without looking.

For the next week, I’d love to be just Audrey Tristan, tourist. Not Audrey Tristan, the food critic whose scathing reviews have earned me the industry nickname"The Executioner."Not the woman whose takedowns have closed three restaurants in thepast year alone. Just a woman on vacation who happens to be writing about her experiences.

That’s the lie I tell myself.

Sadly, every bit of that is true.

The thought should bring relief. Instead, my chest tightens with something like dread. When did I become someone who takes more pleasure in destruction than discovery?

The road winds another fifteen minutes before revealing The Haven at Angel's Peak, a sprawling timber and stone lodge that manages to look both imposing and welcoming against its mountain backdrop. Two massive elk antler chandeliers frame the entrance, and somewhere a fire burns, the scent of woodsmoke mingling with pine.

"First time to Angel's Peak?" The valet takes my keys, his flannel shirt, and easy smile part of the carefully cultivated mountain aesthetic.

"Is it that obvious?" My city clothes and pristine luggage might as well be a neon sign.

He chuckles, breath fogging in the cooling air. "We get that look a lot. The first glimpse of the mountains tends to reset something in folks."

Inside, the lobby centers around a stone fireplace large enough to stand in, flames casting dancing shadows across wooden beams and leather furniture. A young woman at reception wears her flannel more formally, with a name tag reading "Emma."

"Welcome to The Haven, Ms. Tristan. We have you in our Mountain View Suite for seven nights." Her fingers fly across the keyboard. "I see you have a reservation for Timberline tomorrow evening as well."

I nod, maintaining the practiced pleasantness that reveals nothing of my purpose. "I've heard wonderful things."

"Chef Morgan creates magic in that kitchen." Pride brightens her voice. "Anything specific I should note for your dining preferences?"

"No allergies, no restrictions. I'd prefer to experience the chef's vision as intended."

The professional assessment slips out before I can stop it, but Emma just smiles wider. "You're in for a treat."

My room is on the fourth floor, cozy rather than opulent with its king-sized bed draped in a handmade quilt and large windows framing the darkening mountainscape. I unpack methodically – notebook, laptop, the small kit of tools I use to assess portion sizes and temperatures without being obvious. My camera disguised as a casual smartphone. The props of my profession.

Thunder rumbles in the distance. The forecast mentioned afternoon showers, but the speed with which clouds have gathered over the peaks suggests something more substantial brewing. Perfect weather for settling in with room service and research.

But my body aches from hours of driving, and the thought of the walls closing around me after a day confined in the car sends me back downstairs in search of fresh air before the storm hits.

"Any walking paths nearby?" I ask the concierge, a bearded man whose plaid shirt strains slightly across broad shoulders.

"The wildflower meadow trail loops around the property. About a mile total." He points toward French doors at the rear of the lobby. "You'll want to stick close, though. That storm's rolling in fast, and mountain weather doesn't mess around."

The path curves behind the lodge, winding through clusters of aspen trees whose leaves shiver silver in the quickening breeze. The air smells different now – metallic, charged with coming rain. Another rumble, closer this time. I should turn back.

Instead, I follow the path as it forks, curiosity pulling me toward a glass structure gleaming at the edge of the property. A greenhouse, its panels reflecting the churning gray clouds overhead.

The first fat drops of rain begin to fall as I reach the door. It swings open easily, unlocked. Warmth and humidity envelop me immediately, along with the heady perfume of herbs and earth.

This is no ordinary greenhouse – long wooden tables overflow with plants arranged with meticulous care. Herbs I recognize – rosemary, thyme, basil varieties – mingled with edible flowers and vegetables at various stages of growth.

Someone has created an exquisite culinary garden, the kind urban restaurants pay premium prices to maintain. I move deeper into the space, fingers lightly brushing past purple basil, its scent releasing into the humid air. Outside, rain now hammers against the glass, turning the world beyond into a watery blur.

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