Page 16 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
"Second, actually." I scan the room, noting the perfectly timed dance of servers, the sound level indicating happy diners, the way the setting sun gilds everything through the massive windows. "I couldn't stay away."
"That's what they all say." He grins, preparing a gin-based cocktail for another guest. His movements are precise and economical. "Chef's got a way of making sure you come back."
Don't I know it.
I order a glass of local pinot noir from a local vineyard and read the bio about the vineyard.
Silverleaf Vineyards: Angel's Peak's high-altitude terrain creates wines with distinctive character—bright acidity, intense fruit notes, and a complexity that surprises even the most discerning palates. Silverleaf Vineyards sits at 6,500 feet, nestled against the dramatic backdrop of the Rocky Mountains, where the harsh conditions create both exceptional wine and resilient people.
Hunter abides by his locally sourced principles, even in his wines. I’m no sommelier, but this is some of the best wine I’ve ever tasted.
I swirl the ruby liquid while pretending to check emails. My peripheral vision catalogs everything: the balance of the room, the pacing of courses, the expressions of diners as they taste their first bites.
The kitchen door swings open, and there he is.
Hunter commands his domain with the same intensity he brought to our encounters. A white chef’s coat emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, his dark hair pushed back from his forehead, as his eyes focus on examining a plate before it leaves the pass. Authority radiates from him in palpable waves.
His gaze sweeps the dining room—a captain checking his ship—and locks onto mine.
Recognition. Heat. Challenge.
I don't look away. Can't look away.
He murmurs something to his sous chef and makes his way across the restaurant, navigating between tables with athletic grace. At the same time, my heart performs a complicated gymnastic routine against my ribs.
"Ms. Tristan." He stops beside me, close enough that I catch his scent—rosemary, heat, male. "Returned for another sampling?"
"Professional curiosity." I take a slow sip of wine, letting it linger on my tongue before swallowing. "Your reputation intrigues me."
"My reputation only?" His voice drops low—a private timbre meant only for me. It slides beneath my skin like silk drawn over bare flesh.
The bartender picks up on the shift, retreating down the bar, suddenly obsessed with polishing nonexistent smudges from a row of glasses at the far end.
"I'm very thorough in my research." I trail a fingertip along the rim of my glass, then down the stem, slow and deliberate. His eyes follow the movement like he’s imagining my touch on something else entirely. "I like to understand what I'm... consuming."
A muscle in his jaw tightens. Just once. Controlled. But I feel it in my core.
"And your findings so far?" There’s an edge beneath the calm, a tension coiled in his tone that thrums between us like a live wire.
"Promising." I meet his gaze, steady. Heat shimmering just beneath the surface. "But inconclusive. I need more... evidence."
He leans against the bar, reducing the space between us by dangerous degrees, slow enough to feel deliberate, close enough that I can smell him: salt, citrus, heat. The space between us shrinks, charged and trembling.
"Well, you have a date at midnight, but if you really wantmore, I’m off Sunday. Let me show you the real Angel's Peak experience."
Professional boundaries scream in warning, howling inside my skull. This is reckless. Dangerous. Delicious.
"I don't think that would be appropriate." But the protest lands weakly between us, laced with want.
"More appropriate than meeting at midnight in my greenhouse?" The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile that sends heat spiraling through my core. It lands like a spark in dry brush.
"That was before I knew who you were."
His hand comes to rest on the bar—inches from mine. Not touching. Almost worse. The space between us crackles with restraint.
"And now that you know?" His hand rests on the bar, inches from mine. Not touching. The absence of contact is somehow more intimate than a caress.
I glance at his fingers. Long. Strong. Capable. I remember how they felt inside me. How I came apart around them.
