Page 53 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

I type back:The angle is Transformation. Give me a week.

Then I slip my phone into my pocket and go to the door. The rain eases to a gentle patter. Hunter is deciding our fate in that greenhouse.

All I can do now is wait, hope, and remember why I came to Angel's Peak in the first place—to find a story worth telling.

And perhaps, if I'm very lucky, a love worth fighting for.

14

Perfect Pairing

The magazine arrives via courier while I'm having coffee at Maggie's Diner, staring out at the mountains as if they might offer some wisdom about Hunter's silence over the past three days. The delivery man checks my ID twice before handing over the thick padded envelope.

"Special delivery from New York," he says, curiosity evident in his tone. Small towns and their insatiable appetite for gossip.

I tear it open, coffee forgotten as I pull out the glossy publication. My breath catches. Timberline dominates the cover—Hunter's hands preparing the mountain trout, steam rising from the cast iron pan, a dusting of pine ash visible on the wooden cutting board.

The headline reads:"Mountain Magic: The Hidden Culinary Gem That's Changing Destination Dining."

But it's the smaller text at the bottom that makes my heart stutter:"Plus: Chef Morgan's Grandfather's Secret Trout Recipe - A Taste of Heritage."

The recipe—the one Hunter taught me during our private cooking lesson—is the one I'd written up and sent to my editoras potential companion content to my review, never imagining she'd feature it so prominently.

"Oh no." The words escape in a whisper.

Darlene glances over as she refills my mug. "Bad news, honey?"

"I need to go." I throw bills on the counter, gathering my things in frantic motion. "Now."

The drive to Timberline takes seven minutes. It feels like seven hours. My mind races through scenarios, each worse than the last. Hunter seeing this as fresh betrayal. The fragile trust we'd begun rebuilding shattered beyond repair. His grandfather's cherished recipe exposed without permission.

The parking lot is filled to capacity, and a line of people waits outside the restaurant's entrance. My review and now this magazine feature have done exactly what Lucas wanted—brought attention—but at what cost?

I push through the crowd, ignoring the irritated murmurs as I bypass the line. The dining room is packed to capacity, servers weaving between the tables. A hostess I don’t recognize holds a tablet at the entrance, managing the growing waitlist.

"I need to see Hunter." My voice sounds breathless, even to my ears. "It's important."

She gives me the sympathetic but firm look of someone who's heard every possible line to skip the wait. "Chef Morgan is extremely busy. If you'd like to leave your name?—"

"Tell him it's Audrey. About the magazine."

Something in my expression must convey my desperation because she hesitates and then nods,

"Wait here."

Minutes stretch like taffy, sticky and uncomfortable. Through the restaurant's windows, I watch the orchestrated chaos of a successful dinner service. Miguel expedites at the pass. Line cooks move in synch. And Hunter—focused,commanding, calling orders with the authority of a general on the battlefield.

The magazine feels heavy in my hands, evidence of another mistake I never intended to make.

The hostess returns, expression carefully neutral. "Chef Morgan can spare a moment. Follow me."

She leads me through the packed dining room. Diners turn to stare, some recognizing me from my byline photo, others simply curious about who rates special treatment. Near the kitchen entrance, Lucas Reid speaks animatedly with what appears to be a potential investor, his gestures expansive, face flushed with unexpected success.

The hostess shows me to Hunter's small office, a converted storage room adjacent to the kitchen. "He'll be with you shortly."

Alone, I examine the tiny space that holds pieces of Hunter's soul. Framed photos of his grandparents. Sketches for seasonal menu items. A shelf of well-worn cookbooks, spines cracked from frequent use. A small potted herb—thyme—growing beneath a desk lamp.

The door opens, and Hunter enters, chef's jacket spotted with the evidence of service, face lined with exhaustion but eyes bright with the adrenaline of a successful night.

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