Page 10 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

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 edictsfrom 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.

3

Confrontations and Cravings

The path to the greenhouse glitters with frost beneath the midnight moon. Each step crunches softly, broadcasting my approach, giving me ample opportunity to turn back.

I shouldn't be here.

Professional ethics demand distance between critic and chef—not midnight rendezvous in secluded greenhouses.

Yet my feet carry me forward, drawn by something beyond rational thought.

The glass structure emerges through the pines, transformed from yesterday's rainy sanctuary into a lantern-lit cavern of secrets.

Dozens of tiny lights hang from the ceiling beams, casting intimate pools of golden light across the verdant space. Steam rises from the heated beds, creating a primordial mist that swirls around the exotic plants.

Hunter stands with his back to the door, white chef's jacket exchanged for a charcoal shirt that stretches across broad shoulders. His dark hair, freed from kitchen constraints, curlsslightly at the nape of his neck. The moonlight filtering through glass panels carves his profile in silver and shadow.

He turns at the sound of the door closing behind me. "You came."

"Against my better judgment." My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Do you always follow your better judgment?"

"Almost always." The admission feels like surrendering a secret.

He crosses the space between us with unhurried confidence, stopping close enough that I can smell the faint traces of kitchen spices on his skin—cardamom, star anise, something woodsy I can't identify.

"Did you enjoy dinner?" His gaze searches mine, professional curiosity mingled with something darker.

"Yes."

"You left before dessert." His observation contains no accusation, only fact.

Heat crawls up my neck. I don't tell him I was fleeing him, fleeing the confusion his presence stirred in my carefully ordered life.

"I had a headache."

"Convenient." Not believing me for a second. "I saved you something."

He reaches behind him to a small table, retrieving a glass dish that catches the lantern light. Inside sits a perfect quenelle of dark chocolate mousse, topped with gold leaf, beside a sphere of what appears to be passion fruit sorbet. The entire creation is dusted with something that glimmers like crushed stars.

Hunter lifts a small spoon, gathering a perfect bite that combines all elements. "Open."

The command, soft but unmistakable, sends a shiver down my spine. My lips part before my brain can object.

He places the spoon gently in my mouth, his eyes never leaving mine. Flavors explode across my tongue—bittersweet chocolate deepened with espresso, bright tropical passion fruit, and something unexpected—a hint of heat that blooms slowly, building in intensity.

"Ancho chile." The words escape on a breath.

"And Szechuan peppercorn." His thumb brushes my lower lip, catching a stray speck of gold leaf. "Sweet. Hot. Numbing. A contradiction of sensations."

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