Page 8 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

I'm midway through the fourth course—elk tartare with pickled ramps and juniper aioli—when a ripple of energy passes through the dining room. Conversations soften, heads turn, and the staff straightens imperceptibly.

The chef has emerged.

He moves from table to table, greeting guests with confidence and warmth. Tall and broad-shouldered in his crisp white jacket, he commands the space effortlessly. Something about his posture, the way he tilts his head while listening to a diner's comments, triggers a flutter of recognition in my chest.

When he turns toward my section, the flutter becomes a stampede.

Hunter.

The man from the greenhouse stands twenty feet away, speaking with an elderly couple at the next table. His dark hair is neatly combed now—no longer mussed by my fingers, no trace of the raw, hungry man who had me spread across a workbench hours ago. His face is composed, professional. Almost indifferent.

But then his gaze finds mine.

Recognition hits like a jolt. A flash of surprise—brief—quickly replaced by something darker. Hungrier.

Like he’s remembering the taste of my skin, and the way I sounded when he made me beg.

That look doesn’t belong in a dining room. It belongs in the shadows. In bedsheets. In heat.

My breath catches, and I forget how to move.

His pupils dilate, a barely perceptible change from across the room, but one I feel like a physical touch. A hint of a smile touches the corner of his mouth—not the polished one he's been offering other diners, but something private and hungry.

Heat radiates from his gaze as it sweeps slowly down my body and back up, a silent reminder that he knows exactly what I look like beneath my silk blouse. Within seconds, his features smooth into careful neutrality, but the message has been sent. He's found me again, and he's far from disappointed.

My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird. Of all the restaurants in all the mountain towns in America, I had to walk into his.

He approaches my table with measured steps, as if giving us both time to prepare.

"Welcome to Timberline." His voice carries no hint of our previous encounter, though his knuckles whiten slightly where they grip the back of the empty chair across from me. "I understand this is your first time dining with us, Ms.Tristan."

"Yes, my first time." The double meaning hangs between us, unacknowledged.

"I hope you're enjoying the tasting menu so far." His professional smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, which remain fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

"The elk tartare is exceptional." I gesture to my half-finished plate, grateful for something to discuss that isn't the press of his body against mine, the taste of his mouth, the sound of his breathing as it quickened against my ear.

"Thank you. We dry-age the elk loin before preparing the tartare. The juniper berries are gathered on the property."

A server approaches with a question, and Hunter—Chef Morgan—steps slightly away to address it.

The moment gives me space to breathe, to gather my scattered thoughts. Yesterday, I wrapped my legs around this man's waist as he fucked me senseless. Today, I'm evaluating his culinary skills for a review that could make or break his restaurant.

He returns his attention to me. "I'd like to send out something special for your next course. A dish I've been working on that's not yet on the menu."

"That's not necessary." The last thing I need is special treatment that might compromise my objectivity.

"I insist." His tone brooks no argument, though a muscle ticks in his jaw. "I want to ensure your first experience at Timberline is... memorable."

"It's already been memorable in more ways than one." The words slip out before I can stop them, my voice dropping to ensure only he can hear.

His eyes darken, the professional mask slipping just enough to reveal the man from the greenhouse.

"That's nice to hear." The timbre of his voice changes, deepening to the intimate register that whispered heated promises against my neck. "I had an interesting day myself. Something unexpected. Out of the ordinary." He leans slightly closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Something I hope to taste again."

Heat pools low in my belly, my body responding to his proximity like a tuning fork struck at the perfect frequency.

"I’d like that." No reason to be shy. I gave this man my body before I gave him my name.

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