The answer comes unbidden: "Words. Stories." I hesitate, then add, "Truth, I hope."

She nods as if I've confirmed something. "Good. He needs someone who understands truth. There's been too much deception in his life."

"You mean with his restaurant in Denver?" I ask carefully, wondering how much she knows.

Eleanor's eyes cloud with remembered anger. "That snake of a business partner—Garrett—was just the culmination. Hunter's always attracted people who want to use him." She leans closer,voice dropping. "Then his sous chef in Chicago stole his recipes and opened her own place."

She sighs, weathered hands folding in her lap. "Garrett was the worst, though. Manipulated investors behind Hunter's back, changed suppliers to cheaper products without telling him, then blamed kitchen failures on Hunter when customers complained. By the time Hunter discovered the financial deception, the restaurant was already sinking. Garrett had been siphoning money for months."

"Hunter never told me the details," I murmur, guilt slicing through me like a blade.

"He wouldn't. Too proud." Eleanor's piercing gaze returns to mine. "He trusts too easily, that boy. Sees the good in people. It's his gift and his curse."

The barb lands precisely, whether intentional or not. I look away, unable to meet those eyes, so like her grandson’s; the weight of my own deception suddenly becomes unbearable.

"I should help with something," I say, rising. "It doesn't seem right just to sit while everyone works."

"Another good sign." Eleanor's smile warms her entire face. "Serving station needs hands, I suspect."

I find myself drafted into service, donning an apron and taking a position behind a long table laden with Hunter's creations. For the next two hours, I serve food to a steady stream of community members, learning names and connections, hearing more stories about Mabel's place and its importance to Angel's Peak.

The food Hunter has prepared is simpler than his Timberline offerings but no less thoughtful—dishes designed to be served outdoors, to hold their quality through the afternoon, to feed many from ingredients that remain affordable while showcasing local products.

I catch him watching me from across the lawn, a complicated expression on his face. When our eyes meet, something passes between us—recognition, connection, possibility. I feel myself falling deeper into whatever this is between us, whatever we might become to each other if circumstances were different.

For one suspended moment, I allow myself to imagine it—a life here, among these mountains and these people. Waking to Hunter's smile each morning. Becoming part of this community that rallies around its own. Trading my nomadic existence for roots, for belonging.

The fantasy is so vivid that it leaves me breathless.

The Denver food writer never materializes—probably stuck in mountain traffic, someone speculates. The fundraiser collects enough to repair Mabel's roof and bring the electrical system up to code. As twilight descends, someone produces fiddles and guitars, and impromptu dancing breaks out on the lawn.

Hunter finds me as I'm hanging up my serving apron. "Thank you for helping." His voice is low and intimate, beneath the music and laughter. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." The simple truth feels revolutionary on my tongue.

His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. "You fit here." The words carry weight beyond their simplicity. "With these people. With me."

My throat tightens. I can't speak past the emotion lodged there.

"Stay." It's barely a whisper, more of a plea than a demand. "Not just for your week. Stay longer."

"Hunter—"

"I know it's fast. I know you have a life elsewhere." His eyes hold mine, nakedly vulnerable in a way I've never seen him. "But I think we could build something real here. Together."

Words fail me entirely. Instead, I rise on tiptoe and kiss him, aware of Eleanor watching from across the lawn, of townspeople noticing and smiling, of how public this declaration feels.

For once, I don't care who sees. Don't care about professional boundaries or my carefully crafted persona. In this moment, I'm just a woman kissing a man she's falling in love with, surrounded by a community that already feels partly mine.

Later, much later, I return to my room at The Haven. The night air carries the scent of pine and woodsmoke. The mountains are black silhouettes against a star-strewn sky. Hunter offered to walk me back, but I needed time alone, and space to think.

My laptop sits where I left it this morning, both drafts of my review still open and unsent. I read through them again—the expected takedown and the honest appreciation, the critic's voice and the woman's heart.

With sudden clarity, I know which is true. Know which I can live with publishing.

I make a few final edits, attach Hunter's grandfather's trout recipe photos, and press send on one of the drafts. Then I close my laptop, unexpectedly at peace with my decision.

My phone rings almost immediately. My editor's name flashes on the screen.