Page 13 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
"You're thinking too loudly." Hunter's voice pulls me from my thoughts. His hand cups my cheek, turning my face to his. "What is it?"
"I've never had a one-night stand." The admission surprises even me. "Let alone a two-night stand, or whatever this is."
"It’s called chemistry." A smile tugs at his mouth. "The most powerful kind."
"Not that it can last." Reality intrudes—cold, unwelcome, but necessary. "I'm only here for a week."
His thumb traces my lower lip. "That gives us a week to enjoy and explore." His eyes darken with suggestion. "There's so much more I want to show you. So many ways I want to have you."
The promise sends a shiver through me, images flashing unbidden—Hunter controlling my pleasure, pushing boundaries I've never dared approach.
"I can't stop thinking about you." The admission costs him something; I see it in the tightening of his jaw. "I haven't been able to focus since yesterday."
"Me neither." More truth than I intended to reveal.
"Stay with me tonight." His request emerges rough-edged, almost vulnerable.
I step back, needing distance to think clearly. "I can't. I have work early tomorrow."
"Of course." Disappointment flashes across his features before understanding replaces it.
The walk to the greenhouse door feels infinite. At the threshold, Hunter catches my hand, pulling me back for one last kiss—gentle now, almost sweet, belying the dominance he'd shown earlier.
"Midnight tomorrow." Not a question. A statement of intent. "Don't be late."
"And if I am?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Heat simmers in his eyes, turning them almost black in the lantern light. His fingers tighten slightly around my wrist, thumb pressing against my pulse point.
"Best not to find out." The edge in his voice hints at something darker, feeding directly into the fantasy I'm only beginning to acknowledge—the desire to be truly dominated,controlled, to experience whatever consequences he might devise.
Every professional instinct screams for distance, even as my body responds traitorously to his implied threat. The words that slip out of my mouth are completely foreign to me. "As you please…Chef."
"Fuuuck," he groans. "Don’t do that."
"Why?"
"Because it feeds a part of me you’re not ready to handle."
"Don’t be so sure about that…Chef." I lift on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "I’ll be here, midnight tomorrow, yours to do with as you please."
Before he can respond, I beat a hasty retreat, too heady with the words that just slipped from my lips.
The night air bites at my heated skin as I make my way back to my room, my mind racing with contradictions. The physical evidence of our encounter lingers in pleasantly sore muscles and the phantom impression of his hands on my skin.
My laptop waits on the desk, accusatory in its silent presence. With resignation, I open it, determined to at least make preliminary notes on my dinner at Timberline before tomorrow's breakfast service review.
The email notification chimes as soon as the screen illuminates. From my editor, subject line blunt: "Angel's Peak Assignment."
I click it open, stomach sinking before I even read the words:
"Need your brutally honest take on this one - our readers expect nothing less than your signature takedown if it's warranted. Word is they're gunning for a Michelin star. Your job is to determine if they deserve it. Don't let the mountain charm cloud your judgment. –Margaret"
The words blur as I stare at them, Hunter's taste still on my lips, his touch still imprinted on my skin.
I am so utterly, completely screwed.
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