Page 48 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

"Sure he does. Question is, what are you going to do about it?"

I stare at her. "Do? There's nothing to do. He made it clear he wants me gone."

"And you always do what men tell you?" Edith arches an eyebrow. "Doesn't sound like the woman who wrote that review."

My phone buzzes again. More texts, emails, and notifications as the review circulates. The online version already has hundreds of comments. My editor wants to discuss a feature on mountain cuisine. My assistant asks about follow-up restaurants to visit.

The life I built is calling me back, but it suddenly seems hollow. Empty words about food that never filled the gnawing vacancy inside me. Not the way Angel's Peak has. Not the way Hunter did.

"I should pack." I leave cash on the table despite Darlene's offer of free pie. "My flight's tomorrow."

Back at The Haven, I mechanically fold clothes into my suitcase. Each item reminds me of a moment with Hunter—the sweater I wore foraging, the dress from our first dinner, the shirt he peeled off me in the greenhouse. I should burn them all, artifacts of a week that changed everything and ultimately led nowhere.

A knock at the door interrupts my melancholy. Probably housekeeping. I open it to find Hunter's grandmother, Eleanor, her weathered face grave.

"Mrs. Morgan." I step back, surprised.

"You're packing." She nods at the open suitcase. "Running away."

"Your grandson made it clear I'm not welcome here anymore."

"My grandson is a stubborn fool." She enters uninvited, surveying the room. "Takes after his grandfather that way. Locked himself in the smokehouse for three days when we had our first real fight."

I don't know what to say to this unexpected visitor or her shared confidence.

"He showed me your review." Grace sits in the armchair by the window. "Beautiful writing. Honest."

"Thank you." The praise feels unearned.

"You love him." Not a question but a statement of fact.

"Yes." The truth rises in me, impossible to deny.

"And he loves you, though he's too angry to admit it right now."

"I betrayed his trust." Hope flickers, faint and dangerous.

"Yes, you did." Her bluntness is oddly comforting. "The question is, what matters more—being right or being happy?"

"I don't think it's that simple."

"It never is." She stands, smoothing her skirt. "I'm not here to offer easy forgiveness. That's Hunter's to give or withhold. But if you truly love my grandson, you'll fight for him. And if you don't think he's worth fighting for, then you should definitely get on that plane tomorrow."

She leaves as abruptly as she arrived, the door clicking softly behind her.

I sit on the edge of the bed, her words echoing in my mind.Fight for him.

The concept is foreign. I've spent my career fighting against mediocrity, against complacency, and against my fear of irrelevance. I've never fought for someone.

For connection.

For love.

The decision crystallizes slowly, certainty building like the gathering clouds outside my window. I'll leave tomorrow as planned. Give Hunter space.

But I won't disappear.

I'll write to him—not an email that is easily deleted or a text that is easily ignored, but a letter. Words on paper, honest and raw. And then another. And another. Until he knows the whole truth of what he means to me.

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