Page 7 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

With a last lingering look, he's gone, disappearing into the now-gentle rain. I give myself five minutes before following, taking the path back to the main building on shaky legs.

My room welcomes me with impersonal comfort – the quilt now turned down, a chocolate on the pillow, the rain pattering against windows that frame mountains now shrouded in mist.I sink onto the edge of the bed, my body still humming with aftershocks of pleasure and adrenaline.

My phone chimes with a notification, shattering the moment of quiet reflection. I reach for it automatically, expecting my editor again.

Instead, it's from the lodge: "Your reservation at Timberline is confirmed for tomorrow at 7:00 PM. Chef Morgan looks forward to preparing a special dining experience for you."

My stomach performs a slow roll that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with what just happened in that greenhouse.

I just had mind-blowing sex with a complete stranger.

A stranger, I hope to run into again.

2

Professional Shock

The hostess leads me through Timberline's dining room, her burgundy dress swishing softly against the polished hardwood floors. Exposed wooden beams stretch across the vaulted ceilings, supporting wrought-iron chandeliers that cast a warm, honeyed glow over the space. The scent of cedar mingles with hints of rosemary and thyme, underlining the rustic elegance that permeates every detail.

"Your table, Ms. Evans." She gestures to a prime corner spot beside floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the mountains like living art. Jagged peaks pierce the dusky sky, their snow-capped summits turning rose-gold in the setting sun.

"Thank you." I settle into the buttery leather chair, noting how it's positioned to maximize both the view and privacy. Perfect for a critic who needs to observe without being observed.

The table itself speaks of understated luxury—heavy silverware that catches the light, hand-thrown ceramic plates in earthy blues and greens, linen napkins so crisp they crackle when unfolded. My fingers trace the grain of the wooden table, feeling the natural texture beneath a satin finish.

A server approaches, his movements fluid and unobtrusive. "Welcome to Timberline. May I bring you something to drink while you review our menu?"

"Sparkling water for now, thank you." Professional mode engaged. I've done this hundreds of times, yet anticipation still tightens in my chest. Each new restaurant holds the potential for brilliance or disappointment.

He nods approvingly. "Mr. Reid has spared no expense for this space. The tables were crafted by local artisans from reclaimed timber."

Lodge owner Lucas Reid's reputation precedes him—hospitality mogul turned mountain recluse, pouring millions into this remote property. The investment shows in every detail, from the custom leather chairs to the hand-blown glass light fixtures.

"The chef has created something special here." The server returns with water in a cobalt blue bottle, condensation beading on its surface. "He works exclusively with farms within fifty miles. The microgreens come from our greenhouse."

The greenhouse.

Heat crawls up my neck at the memory of yesterday's encounter. Hunter’s calloused hands pinning my wrists above my head against the foggy glass. The urgent press of his body—hard, demanding—as he lifted me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The way he looked at me, hunger darkening his eyes to midnight, before claiming my mouth like a man starved.

I’ve never surrendered so completely, never felt so thoroughly possessed by someone whose name I didn't even know.

Six more days in Angel's Peak stretch before me—six days of knowing he's here, somewhere, perhaps thinking about me too.

My body tightens at the thought of another encounter, another chance to explore this inexplicable chemistry. The way his fingers dug into my hips, possessive and commanding, awakened something primal in me—a curiosity about what it might be like if he stopped holding back, if he took complete control.

If he claimed me entirely.

"Our beef is from Highland Ranch—grass-fed, dry-aged for forty-five days. The mushrooms are foraged from these very mountains by Chef Morgan himself."

I take a sip of water to cool the flush warming my cheeks. "I'll have the chef's tasting menu."

"Excellent choice."

When he departs, I discreetly retrieve my phone, opening the notes app beneath the table. Professional distance. That's what I need now. I came to Angel's Peak to evaluate Timberline, not to dwell on a momentary lapse in judgment with a stranger.

The first course arrives—a delicate amuse-bouche nestled in a spoon carved from mountain stone. Smoked trout mousse topped with trout roe and microgreens. The flavors burst across my tongue—smoky, briny, herbaceous—a perfect encapsulation of mountain and stream.

Two more courses follow, each more impressive than the last. A chilled spring pea soup is poured tableside over compressed apple and mint, and then a perfectly seared scallop, topped with carrot purée and accompanied by brown butter foam. The attention to detail is remarkable, the flavors clean and precise.

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