Page 17 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
"Now it's complicated."
His gaze dips to my mouth. Stays there.
"It's honest." His eyes darken. "Sunday. Eight AM. I'll pick you up at the lodge entrance."
He straightens, and the loss of his nearness is a physical thing. I grip the stem of my glass tighter to keep from leaning forward.
The look he gives me before turning away is molten.
Not a question. Not a request.
An invitation I already know I’ll accept.
My mouth opens to refuse. What emerges is: "Yes, chef."
"You’ve got to stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"You know damn well what." He eyes me with heat and hunger.
"Is that so?"
"Yes…" He leans down, whispering in my ear. "Be careful which buttons you push, or you may find yourself in a very compromising position."
My heart just about trips over itself.
"I’ll keep that in mind." I could push the conversation, see where it leads, but something tells me to pull back. The lead is not mine to take.
"Enjoy your evening, Ms. Tristan. I'll send over something special." A nod. Satisfaction. He pushes away from the bar, all business again.
I watch him return to the kitchen, heart hammering.
What am I doing?
This isn't just blurring the line between personal and professional—it's erasing it entirely.
The restaurant continues its choreographed ballet around me. Two men at a corner table lean toward each other in serious conversation. One is impeccably dressed in what I recognize as bespoke tailoring—gestures with authority. Lucas Reid, I presume. The lodge owner.
Hunter joins them briefly, shoulders tense under his white coat. The Reid claps him on the shoulder in what appears to beencouragement, but something in Hunter's expression suggests concern beneath his professional mask.
A server delivers an unmarked plate to me—five perfect bites arranged in a geometric pattern that would make a Michelin inspector weep. "Chef's special creation. Not on the menu."
Each bite tells a story of the mountains: smoked trout with foraged ramp custard; venison tartare with juniper and huckleberry; a wild mushroom tart that dissolves on the tongue; alpine herb sorbet that tastes of sunlight on meadows; a miniature chokecherry tart that balances sweetness with untamed tang.
"It's a progression through the seasons of Angel's Peak." The sous chef appears beside me, pride evident as she watches me taste. Mid-thirties, with a sleeve of tattoos visible beneath her rolled-up whites. "Chef Morgan’s been working on this concept for months."
I make appreciative noises, professional critique momentarily forgotten in pure gustatory pleasure.
"This place means everything to him," she continues, eyes following her boss as he expedites at the pass. "To all of us, really. The Haven might look like a rich man's playground, but for locals, Timberline represents hope. Economic survival."
She's gone before I can respond, called back to her station by some kitchen urgency.
I observe Hunter through new eyes as the evening progresses. The way he coaches a young line cook through a mistake rather than berating him. His insistence on personally inspecting dishes for a customer with severe allergies. The respect—not fear—his staff shows him.
This isn't just a chef building a reputation. This is a man building a community.
By the time I leave, my notebook is filled with observations that have nothing to do with food execution and everything to dowith the man behind the cuisine. Dangerous territory for a critic known for her objectivity.
