Page 32 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
Afterward, he wraps me in his chef's coat, the fabric warm and smelling of him. We end up on the floor, backs against the prep island, limbs tangled together in sated exhaustion.
"I'm falling for you." He speaks the words into my hair, voice rough with emotion. "I know it's fast. I know it's crazy. But there it is."
My heart constricts painfully in my chest. I should tell him now. Who I am. Why I'm here. Before this goes any further.
Before more damage is done.
Instead, I kiss him, pouring everything I can't say into the press of my lips against his. The embers of our earlier passion reignite instantly. I push him back against the floor, straddling his hips in one fluid movement.
"Again?" His eyes darken and his hands find my waist.
I answer by rolling my hips against his, feeling him hardening beneath me. Taking control feels like reclaiming some small piece of agency in this web of deception I've spun around us both.
My hands press against his chest, pinning him as I set the rhythm. His chef's coat falls open around me as I move, my skin flushed and hypersensitive.
I want to burn this moment into memory—the way he looks up at me, desire and something deeper darkening his eyes, the way his hands grip my thighs hard enough to leave marks, the way my body knows exactly how to take what it needs from his.
When release comes this time, it's with my head thrown back, his name a breathless prayer on my lips. He follows immediately, the tension in his body snapping as he pulls me down against his chest, our hearts racing in thunderous counterpoint.
When we finally dress and restore the kitchen to its immaculate state, twilight has deepened into true night. Hunter pours a small glass of whiskey as a nightcap.
"To unexpected connections." He touches his glass to mine.
As I sip the smoky liquid, my gaze wanders to the wall near his office. Framed reviews hang in a neat row—some glowing with praise, others blistering with criticism. One particularly savage takedown bears a byline I recognize—Julian Marsh, the San Francisco Chronicle's notoriously vicious critic.
"Battle scars." Hunter notices my attention. "Some fair, some not."
"Do reviews matter that much?" I ask, guilt churning beneath casual curiosity.
"More than they should." He traces the condensation on his glass. "Especially now. Lucas is feeling the pressure from his investors. The Haven isn't turning the profit they expected. Timberline is doing well, but not well enough to carry the whole operation."
He stares into his whiskey, something vulnerable crossing his features. "A major positive review could change everything. Bring in the clientele who stay in the premium suites, not just dine at the restaurant."
The weight of my deception presses on my chest, making breathing difficult. Every day I don’t tell him the truth makes the eventual revelation more damaging.
"Several publications have approached us." He continues, unaware of my internal struggle. "Lucas is particularly hoping for coverage in Palette. Their reviews can make or break a place like this."
"Palette?" My glass nearly slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers.
"Yeah. They're known for having the toughest critic in the business—some woman they call 'The Executioner.' Her takedowns are legendary." He shakes his head. "Though honestly, I'd rather face her than lose this place. Angel's Peak needs Timberline. These people—" he gestures toward the town beyond the windows, "—they're counting on us."
"I should go." I set my glass down, gathering my purse with hands that want to tremble.
"Everything okay?" Confusion clouds his expression.
"Just tired." The lie comes easily now, one more in an expanding collection. "And I have work to catch up on."
"I'll walk you back to the lodge."
"No need." I move toward the door, desperate to escape before my face betrays me. "I could use the fresh air to clear my head."
His brow furrows at my sudden withdrawal, but he doesn't press. "Call me when you get in?"
"Of course." I force a smile that feels like it might shatter my face.
When I exit, the night air hits like a slap, the mountain chill cutting through my emotional turmoil. Stars wheel overhead, indifferent to the human drama unfolding beneath them.
I walk rapidly back to the Haven, my mind a hurricane of competing thoughts. The truth of what's happening is unavoidable now.
