Page 59 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

“Speaking of which,” he murmurs, “your show’s ratings came in…”

"And?"

"Highest of the season. The network called while you were at the fitting. They're offering a three-year renewal with an increased production budget."

I turn in his arms, searching his face. "That means more travel. More time away from Angel's Peak. From you."

"Or more reason to come with you." His hands settle at my waist, thumbs tracing small circles. "Part-time, at least. Miguel can handle Timberline for stretches. The students would benefit from international perspectives."

"You'd do that?" The question emerges softly with wonder.

"We're partners, Audrey. In life, in business, in everything that matters." His forehead rests against mine. "Besides, I hear there are mountains with interesting culinary traditions all over the world."

"I love you." The words still feel new each time I say them, bright as fresh herbs.

"Good thing, since you're marrying me in a few hours." His smile turns playful. "Unless you're having second thoughts?"

"Not a chance, Chef Morgan." I rise on tiptoe to press a brief kiss to his lips. "I know a perfect pairing when I taste one."

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of activity. Mabel arrives with her famous liqueur, stopping to fuss over how thin she thinks I look despite a year of Angel's Peak cooking. Jackson Hart brings wild mushrooms he foraged at dawn, a wedding gift he insists on incorporating into the menu himself. Maggiefrom the diner delivers her special blend of coffee beans, roasted precisely for our dessert course. Amelia, my wedding planner, runs around making sure everything is perfect and on track.

In the midst of this beautiful chaos, I find myself alone in the greenhouse for a stolen moment of quiet. The space has been transformed for tonight—tiny lights woven through herb trellises, the long table set with vintage china Hunter's grandmother contributed, each place marked with a handwritten card detailing the guest's connection to our story.

At the far end, partially hidden behind mature rosemary plants, sits a new addition: a small nursery section with tiny seedlings in miniature pots—baby herbs, as Hunter calls them—each one labeled with care and protected by specialized glass to maintain its perfect growing environment.

My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach. The secret I've been keeping for three weeks, waiting for the perfect moment to share with Hunter.

"There you are." His voice draws me from contemplation. "The team's looking for final approval on the amuse-bouche plating."

"It's beautiful in here." I turn to face him, taking in how handsome he looks even in work clothes, his presence still capable of quickening my pulse after all this time. "Everything we dreamed."

He crosses to me, eyes softening as he registers my mood. "Second thoughts after all?"

"The opposite." I take his hands in mine, drawing him to the nursery section. "I added something to our greenhouse. A new project."

His brow furrows as he examines the careful setup, the tiny seedlings breaking through the soil.

"Baby herbs? I thought we were waiting until after the expansion to start the rare varietals program."

"These aren't just any seedlings." I guide his hand to my abdomen, watching comprehension dawn in his eyes. "These are symbolic ones. For our own little seedling."

Time suspends as he processes my meaning, his expression transforming from confusion to wonder to incandescent joy.

"You're pregnant?" The words emerge in a whisper, reverent and awed.

I nod, tears blurring my vision. "About eight weeks. Our own little sous chef in training."

His arms enfold me with tender urgency, his face buried in my hair. When he pulls back, his cheeks are damp. "A baby. Our baby."

"Due in spring. When everything begins growing again."

Hunter drops to his knees, hands framing my stomach with exquisite gentleness as if I've suddenly become infinitely precious.

"Hello in there, little one. I'm your dad." His voice breaks on the last word. "And I already love you more than I thought possible."

The moment is so pure and perfect that I want to preserve it forever. This man—my almost-husband, soon-to-be father of my child—kneeling before me in the greenhouse where our story began, making his first promises to our future.

He stands, cradling my face in his hands. "When were you going to tell me?"

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