Page 29 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

Back in my lodge room, I peel off layers of mountain-scented clothing and step into a steaming shower. Today revealed Hunter in ways our previous encounters never could.

The chef is impressive, but the man—connected to his community, passionate about his home, protective and patient—is something else entirely.

How can I possibly write an objective review now?

My phone rings just as I wrap myself in the Haven's plush robe. My editor's name flashes on the screen.

"Audrey, Glad I caught you." His voice bursts through the speaker, New York energy jarring against the mountain peace. "I need a draft of your review in three days. This one's going on the cover."

My stomach plummets. "The cover?"

"'Mountain Miracle or Rustic Disappointment?'" He sounds gleeful. "Your takedown of that pretentious Seattle place boosted our subscriptions by fifteen percent. Readers are expecting something equally brutal or breathlessly admiring. Either way, we need click-worthy content."

"I'm still gathering impressions." My voice sounds distant to my own ears.

"Well, gather faster. Three days, Audrey. Make it juicy."

The call ends, leaving me staring at my reflection in the steamy mirror.The Executioner.That's who they want.

But the woman who spent the day in Hunter Morgan's mountains, who learned his secrets and shared her own, who's falling for a man and a place she was only supposed to judge—she wants something else entirely.

8

Kitchen Confidential

The text message arrives as I'm halfway through my second cup of coffee, curled in the window seat of my lodge room, watching early morning mist rise from the mountains.

"Timberline's closed Mondays. Private cooking lesson? 4pm."

My fingers hover over the screen. This is crossing yet another line in a rapidly disappearing professional boundary.

A food critic doesn't take cooking lessons from her subject. She doesn't spend days exploring his hometown. She certainly doesn't sleep with him repeatedly, and she absolutelyneverallows him to bind her hands and take control during sex.

The Executioner would never.

But Audrey—the woman who felt something crack open inside her on that mountain yesterday—types back:"I'll be there."

Research.

That's my paper-thin justification as I select a casual and flattering outfit—dark jeans that hug my curves and a soft cashmere sweater in deep forest green. I tell myself the extratime spent on my makeup and hair is merely a professional presentation.

The lies I tell myself are becoming more elaborate by the day.

Timberline looks different in the afternoon light—softer, more intimate, without the evening bustle.

The "CLOSED" sign hangs on the door but swings open at my touch. The dining room sits in hushed expectation, chairs inverted atop tables, sunlight streaming through the massive windows painting golden patterns across the hardwood floors.

"Back here." Hunter's voice calls from the kitchen.

I follow the sound, my heels clicking against the polished concrete floors of the back hallway. The professional kitchen gleams with stainless steel precision, knives aligned on magnetic strips, and copper pots hanging in size order above a massive range.

Hunter stands at a central prep island, a white apron tied over a simple black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders. His forearms flex as he fillets a fish with hypnotic efficiency, each movement precise and controlled.

"You came." He glances up, a smile warming his features.

"I was intrigued." I set my purse on a stool, suddenly aware of how out of place my city-self appears in this temple of culinary creation. "Though I should warn you—my cooking skills are limited to reheating takeout."

"Perfect." His grin widens. "Blank slate. No bad habits to unlearn."

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