Page 43 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

Panic claws at my throat as I stare at my phone screen, desperately willing my editor to respond. Three texts, five calls—all unanswered. The wrong version of my review sits in her inbox, poised to destroy everything I've come to care about. Everything Hunter has built.

I have until tomorrow—less than twenty-four hours to fix this catastrophic error.

But even if I succeed, a deeper truth remains: Hunter doesn't know who I am or what I came here to do. Every moment I've spent with him has been built on a foundation of deception, regardless of how real my feelings have become.

I dress quickly—dark jeans, burgundy sweater, boots appropriate for the snow-covered ground. My reflection shows a woman I barely recognize, eyes haunted by the weight of a necessary confession.

The Haven has sprung back to life after the storm. Staff clear paths through knee-deep snow, and guests venture outside to marvel at the transformed landscape. The sense of shared crisis has created a strange camaraderie among strangers.

I barely notice any of it, my mind fixed on a single purpose as I make my way to Timberline. The restaurant is located in its own wing of the lodge, accessible both from within and via a separate entrance for non-hotel guests. I choose the external path, needing these few minutes in the biting cold to clear my head and rehearse what I'll say.

I need to tell you something. I haven't been honest about who I am. I'm the food critic for Palette Magazine. I came here to review Timberline, but I never expected to meet you, to feel this connection...

No matter how I phrase it, the truth sounds hollow and self-serving.

The restaurant's entrance is partially blocked by drifted snow, but the door yields when I push. Inside, controlled chaos reigns. Staff hurry between stations, checking inventory and assessing storm damage. A ceiling leak has been contained with the strategic placement of pots and buckets. The massive windows, typically showcasing mountain views, are still partially obscured by ice and snow.

Hunter stands at the center, sleeves rolled to his elbows, issuing instructions with calm authority despite the dark circles under his eyes suggesting he hasn't slept. He hasn't noticed me yet, giving me a moment to observe him in his element—focused, decisive, and completely in command of his domain despite the crisis.

Courage nearly fails me. How can I shatter this man's world? Yet how can I not tell him before he discovers the truth from someone else?

He looks up, eyes finding mine across the room. His expression softens instantly, worry lines easing as he changes course to approach me.

"Hey." His voice drops for my ears alone as he reaches me. "I was going to come find you once we got this under control."

"I need to see you." My voice sounds strained. "To talk to you about something important."

Concern shadows his features. "Everything okay?"

"Not exactly. I need to?—"

"Hunter!" A server hurries over with a clipboard. "The seafood delivery can't get through. Rockslide on the pass."

Hunter's focus shifts, his professional responsibilities taking priority over our conversation. "Call Marie at High Country Farms. See if she can increase our meat order. And check with Javier about additional vegetable options." He turns back to me. "Sorry. Give me just a few minutes?"

Those few minutes stretch to thirty as one crisis after another demands his attention. I hover at the edges of the activity, watching Hunter navigate each challenge with the same grace he brings to creating his dishes.

A distinguished dark-haired man in an impeccably tailored suit enters, surveying the situation with a critical eye. Lucas Reid, I presume. His presence changes the energy in the room immediately—staff stand straighter, voices lower, movement becomes more purposeful.

"Morgan." His voice carries both authority and concern. "How do things look?"

Hunter straightens, meeting his gaze directly. "Minimal structural damage. One leak contained. We've lost the seafood delivery due to road conditions, but we're adapting the menu. We can open for dinner service tonight with a limited selection."

"Cancellations?" Lucas asks.

"Three so far. We're calling to confirm the remaining reservations."

Lucas nods, seemingly satisfied. His gaze sweeps the room, landing on me with sudden interest. "And who is this?"

Hunter's expression shifts subtly—protective, possessive. "Audrey Tristan. A... friend."

Lucas approaches, offering a manicured hand. "Lucas Reid. A pleasure, Ms. Tristan. Are you enjoying your stay at The Haven?"

"Very much," I respond, shaking his hand. "You've created something special here."

"Hunter is responsible for Haven’s success." His tone suggests this is both a compliment and an expectation. He turns back to Hunter. "We need to discuss the financial implications of yesterday's closure. My office, thirty minutes."

"I'll be there." Hunter's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

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