Page 14 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

Professional Deception

Ican’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 forstruggling communities clinging to nostalgia and sub-par beignets.

But the coffee tastes different here.

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