Page 9 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

When he departs, I drain my water glass, wishing it contained something stronger. The surrounding tables resume their conversations, but I catch fragments about Timberline and its importance to Angel's Peak.

"...saved the town after the ski resort closed..." "...jobs for local farmers..." "...finally putting us on the map..."

The weight of responsibility settles heavily on my shoulders. The Executioner, they call me in industry circles. For my ruthless assessments that have closed more than one ambitious establishment. But those were faceless chefs in anonymous kitchens, not a man whose taste I still carry on my tongue.

The special course arrives—venison loin, perfectly medium-rare, with huckleberry reduction, confit potatoes, and truffle foam. The presentation is a study in controlled elegance, with flavors that are harmonious yet surprising. It's brilliant,innovative cooking that would impress me under any circumstances.

I force myself to analyze it objectively—the technical precision, the balance of flavors, the thoughtful sourcing—but my critical faculties keep stuttering against memories of strong hands, hungry mouths, and a cock that shouldn’t be legal.

Desire coils hot and tight, low in my belly. I’ve never had sex like that. Sex with a stranger. Sex that blew my mind. Sex where I came hard and heady.

The venison remains half-eaten when I signal for the check.

"No dessert, Ms. Tristan?" My server appears concerned.

"Another time, perhaps." I offer a reassuring smile. "A sudden migraine. Please convey my compliments to the chef."

Coward.

But I need space to think, to separate the professional from the personal before I can properly evaluate this meal.

I leave enough cash to cover the bill and a generous tip, then make my escape without looking toward the kitchen. The cool mountain air clears my head somewhat as I stride back to my room, gravel crunching beneath my boots.

The Haven's winding paths are lit by copper lanterns, their flames dancing in the gentle evening breeze. Stars hang impossibly close in the clear mountain sky, brilliant against velvet darkness. Under different circumstances, I might find it romantic.

My room welcomes me with its rustic comfort—patchwork quilt, river-stone fireplace, the faint scent of pine and beeswax. I kick off my boots and collapse onto the bed, staring at the exposed beam ceiling.

What are the odds?

What cosmic joke placed Hunter Morgan's restaurant on my review schedule after placing his body in my arms?

His cock in my…

What am I supposed to do now? Recuse myself? That would mean admitting what happened. Write the review anyway? That would require an objectivity I'm not sure I can muster.

A soft knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts.

"Yes?" I call, not moving from the bed.

"Delivery for Ms. Tristan." A female voice, likely front desk staff.

I drag myself up and open the door to find a young woman holding a cream-colored envelope.

"This was left for you at reception." She hands it over with a professional smile.

Alone again, I turn the envelope in my hands. High-quality paper, weighty and textured. My name is written in a bold, slashing hand. No return address.

The note inside is brief, the ink still slightly damp:

"I need to see you. Meet me at the greenhouse. Midnight. Don't be late. -H."

I press the paper between my fingers, feeling the impression of his pen strokes, the urgency behind them. The command in those five words—"don't be late"—sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the mountain chill.

He probably wants more free sex. Using me for convenient pleasure while I'm in town.

The thought should offend my professional sensibilities, but instead, it ignites something dark and hungry within me.

No one knows me here. Not really. Not as Audrey Tristan, feared critic who holds restaurateurs' futures in her perfectly manicured hands.

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