Page 33 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
I'm falling in love with the subject of my review. A review that could save or destroy everything he's built. Everything this town depends on.
The Executioner wouldn't hesitate.
She'd write an objective assessment regardless of personal entanglements. That's her brand. Her professional identity.
But I'm not sure I can be her anymore. Not after seeing Hunter in his element. Not after understanding what Timberline means to this community. Not after feeling something I've never felt before in his arms.
In my room, I open my laptop and create two documents. The first contains the truth—a glowing review of Timberline's innovative approach to mountain cuisine, its deep connection to place, and the technical skill behind dishes that sing with authenticity.
I upload the photos of the trout dish we created together. They’re the perfect visual evidence of what makes this place special—not just technical perfection, but soul and connection to the land.
The second is what my readers expect—a clever, cutting assessment that finds fault with pretension, questioning whether mountain ingredients can genuinely compete with coastal abundance, and wondering if the chef's personal history has made him too safe, too rooted in tradition.
Both contain enough truth to be defensible. Both would satisfy my editor's demand for "click-worthy content."
My finger hovers over the send button on both drafts. Who do I want to be?
The Executioner. Or the woman I'm becoming in Hunter Morgan's mountains.
I've never had trouble making this choice before.
9
Community Connections
Morning light spills across my laptop, where both drafts of my review remain unsent. I've barely slept, the weight of my decision pressing against my chest like a physical thing. Professional integrity versus something I barely recognize in myself—this unfamiliar yearning for connection, for belonging.
The walls of my luxury suite at The Haven suddenly feel confining. I need air. Perspective. Distance from both Hunter and my own tangled thoughts.
I dress quickly in jeans and a light sweater, grabbing my jacket to ward off the mountain morning chill. The lobby is quiet, with only a single staff member polishing the already gleaming reception desk.
"Heading into town?" His name tag reads "Jeffrey," and his smile seems genuinely warm rather than the practiced hospitality smile I've grown accustomed to in luxury establishments.
"Yes. Any recommendations?"
"Maggie's has the best breakfast, but you might try The Pickaxe for lunch. It’s the only real bar in town. Best burgers inthe county." He leans across the desk conspiratorially. "Don't tell Maggie I said that."
The path into Angel's Peak has become familiar now—past the stone marker commemorating the town's founding, down the gentle slope where pines give way to the first weathered buildings. Mid-morning sunshine gilds everything in honey light, the mountains standing like sentinels in the background.
Angel's Peak looks different today. No longer a picturesque backdrop for my review, but a living community with heartbeats and histories. People nod as I pass, a tentative acknowledgment that I'm becoming a recognized face rather than just another transient tourist.
The Pickaxe sits at the far end of Main Street, a squat building of rough-hewn logs with a faded wooden sign depicting crossed mining tools. It looks like it's been standing since the town's founding, worn smooth by time and use.
A bell jingles as I push open the heavy wooden door. The interior is dim after the bright mountain sunshine, smelling of beer, old wood, and something delicious simmering from the kitchen. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, currently cold in the summer heat. Vintage mining implements and black-and-white photographs cover every available surface.
The bar runs the length of the room, polished to a high shine by generations of elbows. Behind it, bottles glint in the light filtering through small windows. A handful of locals occupy scattered tables despite the early hour, conversations dropping to curious silence as I enter.
I approach the bar, where a woman in her sixties, with steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun, regards me with a frank assessment.
"What can I get you?" Her voice has the rasp of either cigarettes or hard living.
"Whatever's on tap and the burger I've heard about." I slide onto a stool, aware of eyes watching from corner tables.
She pours a golden ale from a tap marked with a hand-carved wooden sign reading "Angel's Tears." The beer arrives in a heavy glass mug, condensation already beading on the sides.
"Haven guest?" she asks, punching my order into an ancient register.
"Yes. Audrey Tristan." I offer my name as a small concession, an opening.
