Page 44 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

As Lucas departs, Hunter rubs the back of his neck, tension radiating from his posture. "Sorry about this. Not exactly how I planned to spend time with you today."

"I understand." I step closer, lowering my voice. "Hunter, I really need to tell you something."

"Chef!" His sous chef appears, panic evident. "The walk-in's temperature is fluctuating. We might lose everything if the compressor's damaged."

Hunter curses under his breath. "I need to handle this." Regret fills his eyes. "Can it wait? I promise I'll make time for us later."

The coward in me seizes the reprieve. "I can help if you need extra hands."

Relief washes over his features. "That would be amazing. We're short-staffed with people unable to make it in."

Before I can reconsider, I'm being handed an apron, integrated into Timberline's emergency response. For the next two hours, I work alongside Hunter and his team, inventorying the surviving ingredients, helping to revise the menu based on available products, and preparing vegetables for dinner service.

The work is physical and immediate, requiring full concentration. Hunter moves around the kitchen, occasionallypassing behind me with a hand at the small of my back, our bodies unconsciously finding synchronicity in the shared space.

"You're good at this," he comments, watching me julienne carrots with surprising precision. "Are you sure you haven't worked in a kitchen before?"

"I picked up a few things over the years." It’s not technically a lie, but my stomach twists nonetheless.

We're alone in the walk-in refrigerator when the mounting tension between us finally breaks. Hunter has been checking the repaired cooling system to ensure the temperature remains stable, thereby preserving his precious ingredients. I'm behind him, cataloging the cheese selection that survived the power fluctuations.

"I think we're back to normal," he says, making a note on his clipboard. "Crisis averted."

"Good." I reach past him for a wheel of aged cheddar, my body brushing against his.

The simple contact ignites something primal. His clipboard clatters to the floor as he turns, backing me against the stainless steel shelving. One hand braces beside my head, and the other is already sliding under the hem of my sweater. His mouth finds mine with devastating precision, and his hands grip my hips to pull me flush against him.

The refrigerator’s cold air clings to my skin, but I don’t feel it. Not with the heat radiating off him, not with his hands gripping my waist like he’s seconds from unraveling.

“We shouldn’t,” I whisper against his mouth, my breath already gone. "Your staff?—"

His lips trail down my jaw. “Don’t care.” His voice is a low rasp against my neck. “Been watching you in my kitchen all day. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

His hand slides beneath my sweater, palm flat against my stomach, fingers splayed possessively. I arch into his touch,all thoughts of confession temporarily burned away by more immediate need.

His fingers fumble at the button of my jeans. I clutch at his shirt, the fabric in my fists grounding me as he yanks the zipper down and pushes my jeans over my hips. Cold air rushes in—then vanishes as his hand slides between my thighs, sure and possessive.

“You’re burning up,” he murmurs, voice shaking now. “Fuck, Audrey."

My hands dive beneath his chef’s coat, searching for skin and the taut muscles I remember. I find them—solid and hot—and press my palms against his stomach, his chest, needing all of him at once.

"Five minutes," he murmurs, lifting me onto a cleared shelf. "Give me five minutes."

He shoves his pants down just enough and lifts me in one smooth motion. I wrap my legs around him, the shelving cold and sharp against my spine, his hands hard beneath my thighs.

He pushes inside me in one deep stroke, and I gasp—head falling back against the metal, pleasure spiking through my entire body.

“God,” he breathes. “I forgot…”

He doesn’t finish. Just moves. Thrusting into me with a desperate rhythm, hands everywhere—gripping my hips, sliding under my sweater to find skin, cupping my breast through my bra as his mouth claims mine again.

I hold on—arms wrapped around his neck, breath caught in my throat—each grind of his hips sending sparks through my core.

There’s no finesse. No patience. Just need compacted into a frantic rhythm of soft moans, quick gasps, and bodies colliding in the cold.

“I’m close,” I whisper against his ear, nails digging into his back.

“Me too,” he groans, thrusting harder. “Don’t stop—just stay with me?—”

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