Page 15 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
Deeper. Earthier. Like it was roasted over pinewood and memory.
Like the air and the quiet and the man whose fingerprints I can still feel on my skin.
The waitress—Maggie, according to her slightly crooked name tag—sets a plate down in front of me with a conspiratorial smile.
“On the house, first-timer. Can’t come to Angel’s Peak without trying our berries.”
Huckleberry pie. I should be wary—small-town charm rarely translates to exceptional pastry. But the crust gives beneath my fork with the right kind of resistance, crumbling at the edge, still tender at the base.
I take a bite.
The berries explode across my tongue—wild and imperfect and alive. Bright acidity softened by sun and sugar. A crust that tastes of butter and cold hands. A filling that hasn’t seen the inside of a measuring cup.
I close my eyes.
The flavor doesn’t beg for approval. It just exists. Honest. Undone. Like everything here.
I chew slowly. Swallow. And hate how much I feel.
"That's what I thought." Maggie's laugh is warm and knowing. "Hunter gets his berries from the same patch. My husband's family's been harvesting them for generations."
My professional interest sparks. "For Timberline?"
"Sure. He uses all local stuff. Keeps half this town in business, truth be told." She tops off my coffee. "That boy understands food is about connection. Not just fancy technique."
I manage a noncommittal hum, thumbs moving over my phone screen.
Local sourcing confirmed. Strong community integration. Flavor-forward simplicity.
I add a line under it:
Maggie’s deserves a standalone review. Possibly feature column.
I take another bite of pie, and the guilt lands heavier than the fork in my hand. The crust is still warm, the filling just loose enough to bleed slightly at the edges—a balance that shouldn’t happen by accident. There’s intent in this baking. Heart. History.
Finishing it feels almost illicit.
Every bite pulls me deeper into the fabric of this town—the soft clink of ceramic, the hiss of a stovetop behind the pass, the low murmur of conversations between people who’ve known each other for decades. It’s not just comfort food. It’s belonging, served by the slice.
And layered beneath it all, like a wine note I can’t un-taste, is him.
Chef Hunter Morgan.
A man who cooks with the kind of control I usually respect, and the kind of raw heat that wrecks me.
I can’t stop thinking about his hands—how they plated lamb with surgical precision, and how they dug into my hips like I was his last meal.
After a stroll down mainstream and a short hike along a babbling brook that turns into a quaint mountain stream, I find myself back at The Haven and dinner.
Timberline hums with Friday night energy when I return. I've changed into a simple black dress that hugs my curves without announcing them, paired with understated gold jewelry.
Professional. Detached.
That's my mantra as I enter.
The hostess offers me a table, but I shake my head. "I'll sit at the bar tonight." A better vantage point for observation. Less formal. Less like a critic circling for the kill.
The bartender—bearded, with intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses—slides a cocktail menu my way. "First time at Timberline?"
