Page 28 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

My breath catches, not from what he did to me, but from the fact that he’d ask. That, after all that taking, he still wants to be sure I enjoyed it, too.

I lift my head, meeting his eyes in the dim light. There’s no teasing now. No smirk. Just raw honesty, waiting in the soft line of his mouth.

“It was perfect.” I shake my head slowly.

And I mean it. My body aches in the best way—used, marked, sated—but beneath the wreckage, there’s peace. A kind of bone-deep rightness I didn’t know I was starving for until he gave it to me.

The storm provides our soundtrack—wild and untamed beyond the walls, while something equally powerful but infinitely more tender unfolds within.

Afterward, tangled in scratchy wool blankets on the too-small cot, I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. This feels dangerously like intimacy beyond the physical—the kind that leaves marks no one can see but that never truly fade.

His hand finds the curve of my hip under the covers, thumb stroking idly, grounding me in this quiet aftermath. I don’t want to move. Don’t want to speak. I just want to memorize the rhythm of his breath beneath my cheek.

“The storm’s passing,” Hunter murmurs, voice vibrating under my ear. He turns his head, glancing toward the window.

Sure enough, the wind has calmed, though snow continues to fall in fat, wet flakes that won’t stick but transform the landscape into something magical.

“I wish we could stay like this forever.” I swallow. The words come before I can weigh them.

A beat. The silence stretches between us. Then?—

“Me too…” His arms tighten around me. “Me too.”

We dress in our now-dry clothes and make our way down the mountain. The forest glistens, every surface adorned with melting snow that catches light like scattered diamonds.

The Jeep, thankfully, starts on the first try. We descend toward town, where Hunter insists we stop at the farmers' market occupying the town square every Sunday.

The scene could be from another century—wooden stalls laden with fresh produce, handmade goods, and local specialties. Hunter moves through the crowd, greeted by name at every turn.

"Morgan, just in time." An elderly woman waves from behind a display of honey jars. "Saved you the last of the meadowfoam. Knew you'd be by."

"Mrs. Winters." Hunter kisses her weathered cheek. "You're a saint."

He introduces me to what feels like the entire population of Angel's Peak—the blacksmith who forges his custom knives, the cheese maker whose aged cheddar features in Timberline's signature soufflé, the retired schoolteacher who supplies rare heirloom tomatoes from her greenhouse.

These aren't just suppliers. They're his extended family, a community bound together by food and shared history.

"Last stop." Hunter leads me to a stall selling hand-knitted items. "Emily's mittens will change your life."

The shy teenage girl behind the table blushes when Hunter compliments her work. I select a pair in deep burgundy, warmed by the simple joy on her face when I compliment her craftsmanship.

Snow begins falling again as we walk back to the Jeep, transforming the town into a picture-perfect postcard. Lights glow from shop windows, smoke curls from chimneys, and the mountains stand like sentinels in the background.

For one suspended moment, I allow myself to imagine belonging to a place like this.

To him.

"Thank you for today." I mean it more deeply than he can know. "I've never experienced anything like it."

His eyes hold mine, snowflakes catching in his dark lashes. "There's a lot more to show you. If you want…" The promise in his voice extends beyond geography.

"I’d like that." That's when it hits me with crystal clarity—I'm falling for him.

For this place.

For a life I've never even considered possible.

The realization terrifies me more than the moose, more than the storm, more than anything I've faced in years of ruthless professional detachment.

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