Page 54 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

"Audrey." My name on his lips sends electricity down my spine, even when weighed with wariness.

"I'm sorry." I thrust the magazine toward him like a confession. "I didn't know they would publish this. I sent it as background material for my editor, not for publication. Especially not like this."

He takes it and studies the cover silently. His expression reveals nothing as he flips to the article, scanning the pages with the efficiency of someone used to reading recipes at a glance.

"I would never have shared your grandfather's recipe without permission." The words tumble out, desperate and sincere. "I know what it means to you. How personal it is."

Hunter closes the magazine and sets it on his cluttered desk. The silence stretches between us, unbearable in its weight.

"They spelled my grandfather's name correctly."

Of all the responses I anticipated, that isn't one of them.

"What?"

"Here." He reopens the magazine and points to the introduction of the recipe. "They got it right. Charles Morgan. Most publications butcher it somehow. Make him Charles Moran or Charlie Morgan."

I stare at him, struggling to read his reaction. "You're not angry?"

A laugh escapes him, short and surprised. "About the magazine? No." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "About you leaving town without saying goodbye? Yes."

"Leaving?" My confusion is genuine. "I'm not leaving."

"Miguel said you checked out of The Haven this morning."

Understanding dawns. "I moved to Mabel's guest house. The Haven was getting... expensive."

Something shifts in Hunter's expression, a tension releasing. "So you're staying in Angel's Peak."

"Until you tell me to go." The admission costs me nothing; it's simply the truth. "You did tell me to stay. Or did I get that wrong?"

He studies me for a long moment, and his chef's assessment turns personal.

"The restaurant's insane tonight. Completely booked through the next two weeks. The phone hasn't stopped ringing."

"I noticed." I gesture toward the packed dining room beyond his door.

"Lucas is beside himself. He's had three different investor groups approach him today alone." A wry smile touches Hunter's lips. "Suddenly, my 'unmarketable' cooking style seems very marketable indeed."

Hope flutters in my chest, a tentative wing-beat. "That's good, right? For Timberline, for your vision?"

"It is." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the kitchen on him—herbs, smoke, and the particular aroma that belongs only to Hunter. "But there's something I need to know first."

My heart hammers against my ribs. "Anything."

"Why did you submit that particular recipe to your editor?"

It’s an unexpected question, but one I can answer honestly.

"Because it was perfect. It captured everything special about your cooking—respect for ingredients, connection to place, and technique in service of flavor rather than ego. Because..." I hesitate, then commit to honesty "because it reminds me of you."

He nods slowly as if confirming something to himself. "I need to get back to service. But afterward, can we talk?"

"Yes." The single syllable carries the weight of promises I intend to keep.

"Wait in the greenhouse. I'll find you when we're done."

Night transforms the greenhouse; moonlight filters through the glass to create patterns across the earthen floor. I move among the herbs and seedlings, brushing my fingers across lemon thyme and rosemary, the precious alpine varietals Hunter cultivates with such care.

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