Page 20 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

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."

---