Page 21 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

We half-run, half-slide down a muddy path I wouldn't have noticed without him. The temperature plummets as hail begins mixing with the rain, stinging exposed skin.

The cabin materializes through the downpour—a basic stone structure with a small covered porch. Hunter retrieves a key from beneath a hollowed log that says ‘Key HERE,’ and ushers me inside.

"Hiker's shelter. He has several scattered around the mountains." He shuts the door against the howling wind. "Basic, but it'll keep us alive."

The interior is smaller than my bathroom at the Haven—a single cot, a tiny wood stove, and shelves stocked with emergency supplies. Hunter moves, searching the shelves. He finds what he’s looking for and strikes a match to kindling already laid in the stove.

"Who's Jackson Hart?" I wrap my arms around myself, shivering as the adrenaline fades.

"Local legend. Built these shelters all over the mountain after his fiancée died in an accident." Hunter feeds small logs into the growing flame. "There's a change of clothes in that trunk. Nothing fancy, but they're dry."

The trunk yields thick wool socks, flannel shirts, and thermal leggings that smell of cedar. I turn my back to change, suddenly shy despite our previous intimacy.

The stove gradually warms the small space, our wet clothes steaming on a makeshift line strung across one corner. Outside, the storm rages with increasing fury, hail replaced by snow that shouldn't be falling this early in September.

"We could be here a while." Hunter sits on the edge of the cot, leaving space for me. "Might as well get comfortable."

6

Ten Things and One Confession

Ijoin him, the cot creaking beneath our combined weight. "Is this your idea of the real Angel's Peak experience?"

"Not quite how I planned it." His chuckle rumbles through the small space. "But authentic, nonetheless. Mountain weather waits for no one."

Silence stretches between us, filled with the crackle of the fire and the howling wind. This strange intimacy—trapped together, wearing borrowed clothes, isolated from the world—feels more exposing than our physical encounters.

"I expected you to pounce the moment we were alone in here." The words escape before I can filter them.

His eyes meet mine, amusement mixed with something darker. "Is that what you think this is about? Just sex?"

Heat floods my cheeks. "Our previous encounters suggest a certain... pattern."

"Maybe I want to know the woman I've been having mind-blowing sex with." He shifts to face me more fully. "Let's play a game. Ten things."

"A game?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Ten things we have in common. I'll start." He leans back against the wall. "I hate cilantro. Tastes like soap."

A startled laugh escapes me. "It does. Everyone thinks I'm crazy when I say that."

"Genetic trait. About twenty percent of the population has it." He gestures for me to continue. "Your turn."

"I can't whistle." I demonstrate my pathetic attempt, producing only a rush of air.

"Neither can I." He tries, failing spectacularly. "Drove my grandfather crazy. He could whistle any tune perfectly."

"Your grandfather?" The mention of family snags my interest.

"He raised me after my parents died. Car accident when I was seven." His voice holds old pain, long since accommodated but never truly healed. "He was the cook at the old Angel's Peak Hotel before it burned down. Taught me everything I know about food."

"Is that why Timberline is so important to you?" I ask, forgetting momentarily that I'm supposed to be hiding my professional interest.

His eyes sharpen, but he answers. "Partly. It's his legacy as much as mine." He pauses, weighing something. "Also my redemption."

"From what?"

The stove pops loudly, sending a shower of sparks against the grate.

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