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Page 3 of Matched with the Small Town Chef

Danger flares hot and immediate—I never reveal my profession to subjects before a review.

“Adjacent,” I say, the lie smooth as satin. “Food writing, but not the glamorous kind. Technical stuff.”

Another flash cleaves the sky, lightning stark and white, exposing everything. The thunder crashes right on its heels, loud enough to shake the panes. The lights flicker—once, twice—then vanish, plunging us into velvet dark.

“Damn.” His voice comes from closer now. My pulse ticks faster. “Backup generator’ll kick in for the lodge, but we’re on a separate system out here.”

“Should we head back?”

The question slips out low and husky. Some small part of me pretends it’s concern about the power, but it’s not. Not really.

“In this?” His chuckle wraps around my spine like a rope being drawn tight. “Not unless you’re craving a complimentary shower. There are worse places to wait out a blackout.”

Somewhere above, rain finds a seam in the glass and drums a soft rhythm into the silence—steady, intimate, like a heartbeat.

“I’ve got a light.”

His hand brushes my bare arm as he moves past. Barely a touch, but it sears. Skin-to-skin contact in the dark, and I swear my nerve endings short-circuit.

A soft glow blooms beside me as he flips on his phone flashlight. It casts pale light across his face—that strong jaw, the shadows under his cheekbones, the faint crease at the edge of his mouth as he focuses on the drawer.

“Here we go.”

He strikes a match. The sulfur flares, and golden light spills around us as he lights one candle, then another, scattering them across the workbench like stars dropped into our orbit.

The room glows a warm amber, turning the storm into a distant thing, but I don’t look away from him—not even when the candles flicker.

His face turns, and he catches me watching. Holds me there. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pretend.

The air thickens. Charged. Electric in the absence of electricity.

“I don’t usually do this.” His voice is lower now, scraped raw. It vibrates somewhere under my ribs, in that space behind my breastbone where reason used to live.

“Do what?” My voice barely makes it out.

“Notice someone this fast.” He steps closer, and the scent of him hits me—wet earth, bourbon, rain-warmed skin. Something darker underneath. Spiced. Male. Dangerous.

I should move. Should put space between us. Should remember who I am and why I’m here.

But I don’t.

Instead, I lift my chin. “I don’t usually get noticed.”

“Then you’ve been around blind people.” His hand lifts, pausing a breath away from my face. Close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his skin. “May I?”

My yes is barely a breath, swallowed by the silence between us.

His fingers find my cheek—a featherlight stroke, maddening in its restraint. The touch ignites something beneath my skin, a slow burn that spreads like fire through dry grass. Down my neck. Across my chest. Lower.

This is insane.

I don’t know his name. Don’t know a damn thing except how my body reacts to him—fast, unthinking, molten. Like it’s been waiting for this exact touch without knowing it.

Thunder detonates directly overhead, a violent crack that shudders through the glass. I gasp, a cry escaping before I can catch it.

His arms catch me before I can stumble. One hand on my back, the other steadying my upper arm as I collide with his chest—solid, warm, soaked with rain and heat.

We freeze.


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