Page 42 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

I must drift off eventually, lulled by the whiskey and emotional exhaustion. When I wake, the storm has subsided to gentle snowfall, and moonlight occasionally breaks through clouds to illuminate the transformed landscape. A blanket has been draped over me—Hunter must have returned while I slept.

He sits at a small desk in the corner, the lamp's glow creating a pool of light around him. His focus is absolute as he sketches in a worn notebook, unaware I'm watching.

"What are you working on?" My voice, thick with sleep, startles him.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you." He turns the notebook toward me. "Ideas for Timberline. Menu expansions, new techniques for preserving seasonal ingredients."

I examine his work—detailed sketches of plating designs, notes on flavor combinations, and calculations for food costs. The pages reveal the mind of a chef who is constantly evolving and seeking improvement.

"Even with everything happening, you're still planning for the future." Admiration colors my voice.

"Especially with everything happening." Determination sets his jaw. "This place will succeed. I'll make it work, whatever it takes."

Looking at his plans and hopes sketched carefully, I understand with painful clarity what my review means. It's not just about a restaurant or a chef's ego. It's about this man's redemption, his community's economic lifeline, his family's legacy.

I'm grateful now for my decision and for the truth I chose to tell in my final draft.

We return to my suite as false dawn breaks over the snow-covered mountains. The power has stabilized enough for heat and basic lighting. Hunter needs to check on the restaurant and assess any damage from the storm.

"I'll come find you later." He kisses me at my door, lingering as if reluctant to leave. "Once I know everything's secure."

After he's gone, I check my phone, and cellphone reception has returned with the storm's passing. Multiple notifications await, most urgently, an email from my editor.

My stomach drops as I read the message:"Final version attached. Publishing tomorrow online, print next week. Last chance for changes."

The attachment contains my review—the honest, glowing assessment of Timberline's brilliance—with minor edits for length and house style. Relief floods through me. She accepted my perspective and didn't try to push me back toward my usual critical voice.

As I scan the document, confirming all is as it should be, a text arrives with a distinctive ping.

My editor again:"Final version attached. Publishing tomorrow online, print next week. Last chance for changes."

I frown, confused by the duplicate message, until I open the attachment.

Horror washes through me in an icy wave.

This isn't my review. Not the one I submitted.

This is the other draft—the cutting, clever takedown that questions Timberline's originality and dismisses Hunter’s cuisine as derivative mountain fare elevated by pretentious technique. The Executioner’s voice is sharp and merciless, dismantling everything Hunter has built with surgical precision.

My fingers tremble as I dial my editor's number, desperation clawing at my throat. The call goes straight to voicemail.

I try again.

Same result.

Frantically, I type a response: "WRONG VERSION. Do NOT publish this. Call me IMMEDIATELY."

The message shows as delivered but not read. I call the magazine's main line, but it's Saturday—no one will be in the office.

Outside my window, the sun breaks through the clouds, illuminating a world transformed by the storm—beautiful, pristine, and utterly changed. Just like my life was beginning to be, before this catastrophic error.

My phone pings again.

"Final version attached. Publishing tomorrow online, print next week. Last chance for changes."

11

Truth and Consequences

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