Page 45 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

And I do.

I break first, clenching around him as pleasure rips through me, sharp and fast. He follows seconds later, hips jerking once, twice more as he spills inside me, breath caught in his throat.

We stay like that, frozen in the aftermath—his forehead resting against mine, breath coming in white puffs between us.

Neither of us speaks.

There’s only the sound of our breathing, the fridge’s hum, and my heartbeat pounding inside my chest.

Then, quietly, like he’s not sure he should say it at all?—

“I’m falling in love with you.”

The words land like an avalanche.

My heart simultaneously soars and plummets. "Hunter—" I swallow hard, heart tripping.

"I know." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with surprising tenderness, given our hasty coupling. "I know you have a life elsewhere, but I've never felt this connected to anyone."

He helps me down from the shelf, both of us adjusting our clothing with slightly shaky hands.

"Stay." His eyes hold mine, vulnerability naked in their depths. "Not just for this week. Stay longer. Give us a real chance."

The moment to confess is now before his hopes build any further. Before more damage is done.

"There's something you need to know about me." I force the words past the tightness in my throat.

"Whatever it is, it doesn't matter." He takes my hands in his. "The past is?—"

The walk-in door swings open, his sous chef's voice cutting through our bubble. "Chef, Lucas is looking for you. Says it's urgent."

Hunter sighs, squeezing my hands once before releasing them. "We'll finish this conversation later, I promise."

As we emerge from the refrigerator, several staff members exchange knowing glances. Our absence—and its nature—hasn't gone unnoticed. Under different circumstances, I might be embarrassed. Now, I'm too preoccupied with the confession hanging unspoken between us.

Hunter's phone buzzes in his pocket as we cross the kitchen. Then again. And again. He frowns, pulling it out to check the screen.

"What the hell?" Confusion crosses his features as he scrolls through notifications. "My phone's blowing up with messages."

My blood turns to ice. It can't be. Not already.

He stops walking abruptly, staring at his screen with growing amazement. "It's... it's a review. Of Timberline." His voice rises with excitement. "In Palette Magazine. They've published online ahead of print."

The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet.

"It's... incredible." Wonder fills his voice as he continues reading. "Listen to this: 'Chef Morgan's connection to place transcends mere farm-to-table trendiness, creating instead a profound dialogue between landscape and plate that only a native son could achieve.'"

Relief floods through me so intensely that I have to grasp the edge of a prep table for support. They published the right version—my honest assessment, not the cutting takedown that would have destroyed him.

Hunter continues reading aloud, and his staff gathers around him as he shares passages from my review. I hear my own words—about his innovative techniques, respect for ingredients, andability to translate mountain terroir into unforgettable dining experiences. With each sentence, his face brightens, years of doubt and struggle visibly lifting from his shoulders.

"This changes everything." He looks up, eyes shining. "A feature review in Palette will bring in the clients Lucas has been wanting."

His sous chef claps him on the shoulder. "Couldn't happen to a more deserving chef."

The kitchen erupts in celebration. Someone produces a bottle of champagne reserved for special occasions. Glasses are distributed, and a toast is proposed to Hunter's success.

I accept a glass mechanically, my heart pounding as I wait for the other shoe to drop, for Hunter to see the byline, for him to make the connection.

---