Page 31 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
The first bite nearly brings tears to my eyes. Not because of technical perfection, though it has that in abundance. But because I can taste the mountain streams, the forest floor, and the history of this place in every mouthful.
This is what I've been missing in all those sterile, perfect restaurants I've eviscerated in print.
Soul.
Connection.
Purpose beyond accolades.
"You're quiet." Hunter watches me over the rim of his wineglass.
"It's perfect." The words feel inadequate. "I've eaten in the best restaurants in the world, and this is..." I stop, realizing my mistake.
His eyebrow lifts. "You've eaten in the best restaurants in the world?"
Heat floods my face. "I mean, when I can. For special occasions." The lie tastes bitter compared to the perfect food on my plate.
He accepts this with a nod, but something flickers in his eyes—doubt, perhaps. I change the subject quickly.
"Tell me more about your grandfather. He taught you to make this dish?"
The tension dissipates as Hunter shares stories of his childhood in these mountains, learning to forage and fish alongside the old man who raised him. As the sun sets beyond the windows, we finish the wine, and Hunter clears our plates despite my offer to help.
"Guest privilege." He stacks them in the industrial dishwasher. "Besides, I like watching you enjoy the view."
I stand at the massive windows, watching Alpenglow—a beautiful optical phenomenon that paints the mountaintops in shades of pink and gold opposite the sun. The beauty of this place still takes me aback. It is so different from my usual urban haunts, with their concrete and neon signs.
"Thank you for coming today." Strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, and Hunter's lips find the sensitive spot below my ear.
"Thank you for inviting me." I lean against his chest, allowing myself this moment of perfect contentment.
"I have ulterior motives." His hands slide beneath the hem of my sweater, warm against my skin.
"Do you?" I turn in his arms, finding his eyes darkened with intent.
"I've been thinking about you in my kitchen since you walked in." His thumb traces my lower lip. "The way you looked,concentrating on cutting those herbs. The little sound you made when you tasted the sauce."
Heat pools low in my belly, desire flaring quickly after the slow burn of our cooking session. My hands find the solid planes of his chest through his t-shirt.
"Thinking about me, how, exactly?" My voice emerges huskier than intended.
Instead of answering, he lifts me in one fluid motion, setting me on the edge of the prep table. His mouth claims mine with a hunger that has nothing to do with food, tongue teasing, teeth grazing my lower lip in a way that draws a gasp from deep in my throat.
My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. The kitchen, with its gleaming surfaces and precise tools, recedes into the background, reduced to a backdrop for this consuming need that's built between us.
"Here?" I manage between kisses, my hands already working at his belt.
"Here." His voice holds absolute certainty. "I want to remember you in this kitchen long after you're gone. I want to know I fucked you here."
The words pierce through the haze of desire—a reminder that my time in Angel's Peak has a definite endpoint. That none of this is meant to last.
I push the thought away, focusing instead on the feel of his hands pushing my sweater up and over my head, the cool air of the kitchen against my heated skin, the contrast of the cold stainless steel at my back, and his burning touch at my front.
He takes his time despite the urgency of our need, removing each piece of clothing with deliberate care and kissing newly exposed skin with reverent attention. By the time we're both naked, I'm trembling with anticipation, past coherent thought, or professional concern.
The passion that ignites between us feels different than our previous encounters—deeper, laden with emotions neither of us has voiced. His hands and mouth map my body as if committing it to memory. I arch against him, nails scoring his back as he brings me to the edge again and again before finally joining our bodies.
We move together on that stainless steel altar to food, creating something equally primal and nourishing. Each release tears through me with an intensity that leaves me gasping his name, and clinging to his shoulders as if he's the only solid thing in a world turned liquid with pleasure.
