Page 19 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

Mountain Revelations

The 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 andsilver 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.

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