Page 18 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
The greenhouse glows with soft amber light when I arrive at midnight, as instructed in his text. Condensation beads on glass walls, creating a dreamlike veil between this space and the real world.
Hunter stands between rows of exotic herbs, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms corded with muscle as he transplants seedlings. He doesn't look up at my entrance.
"You're on time." His voice carries in the humid air.
"I'm always punctual for appointments." I move toward him, drawn by forces I still can't name. "Professional habit."
"Is that what this is? Professional?" He finally raises his eyes to mine, intensity burning away pretense.
"Nothing about this is professional." My admission hangs between us.
In three strides, he's before me. No words. No preamble. His mouth claims mine with devastating precision, tasting of mint and man and unchecked hunger.
My body responds instantly, molten heat pooling low in my belly. I grasp his shoulders, fingertips digging into hard muscle as he walks me backward until I feel the edge of a wooden table against my thighs.
"I've been thinking about this all night." His words rumble against my throat as he trails fire down my neck. "Watching you at that bar, pretending we're strangers."
"We are strangers." I gasp as his teeth graze my collarbone.
His laugh is dark, knowing. "Your body doesn't think so."
He lifts me onto the table, stepping between my thighs. My dress rides up, his hands find bare skin, and all coherent thought evaporates in the greenhouse heat.
There's none of the tenderness of our first encounter. None of the exploration of our second. This is raw need, primal and demanding. Claiming and being claimed.
When it's over, we're both breathing hard, skin damp with exertion and the humid air. Reality filters back slowly. What I've done. What I'm still doing.
"Sunday." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the gentle gesture at odds with the fierce possession of moments before. "Eight AM."
I climb down from the table on shaky legs, adjusting my clothing with as much dignity as possible. "This can't happen again."
"It already has. Three times." He steps back, giving me space.
"I'm establishing boundaries." I move toward the door.
"Too late for that." His smile isn't unkind. "We're way past boundaries. Or, rather, it’s time to start exploring what boundaries we each have."
I have no response because he's right. We're in uncharted territory now.
"As you wish."
Back in my room, I shower away the evidence of our encounter but not the memory. Opening my laptop, I stare at the blank document that should contain my preliminary notes on Timberline.
The cursor blinks accusingly.
What exactly are you going to say, Audrey?
That the chef has magic hands in more ways than one? That you can't trust your judgment because you're sleeping with the subject of your review?
A ping from my phone interrupts my self-flagellation. A text from my editor: "Found something interesting about your mountain chef."
My stomach drops as I click the link. The screen fills with an article from three years ago—the dramatic closure of an upscale Denver restaurant. Bankruptcy. Lawsuits from investors. And at the center of it all, a promising young chef named Hunter Morgan.
The accompanying message makes my blood run cold: "Look familiar? Think there's a pattern with our mountain chef?"
I stare at Hunter's younger face in the article photo, wondering exactly what I've gotten myself into—and what secrets he's keeping behind those intense eyes that seem to see right through my professional deception.
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