Page 46 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
"Wait, there are pictures." He returns to his phone, scrolling further. "A trout dish—my grandfather's recipe?"
His brow furrows slightly. "How did they—" He stops mid-sentence, eyes lifting to find mine across the room.
Recognition dawns slowly, then all at once. His expression shifts from confusion to understanding, and then betrayal in the space of a heartbeat. The champagne glass in his hand lowers.
"Audrey Tristan." He says my name differently now, testing it with new awareness. "‘You’reTheExecutioner?"
The kitchen falls silent; staff sense the sudden shift but do not understand its cause.
Hunter moves toward me, each step measured and deliberate. When he reaches me, his voice is low and controlled but edged with pain that cuts deeper than anger ever could.
"You lied to me."
12
Fallout
Hunter's words hang between us, slicing through the warmth that filled the kitchen moments ago. His eyes—those that looked at me with desire, tenderness, and what I began to believe was love—have gone cold. The transformation is so complete that it steals my breath.
"Hunter, I can explain—" My voice sounds foreign to my ears, small and desperate.
"Explain what?" The muscle in his jaw jumps as he clenches his teeth. His hands—those strong, capable hands that explored every inch of my body just minutes ago—curl into fists at his sides. "Explain how you came here to dissect my restaurant. How you slept with me while taking mental notes for your review?"
The accusation burns like acid. "That's not what happened."
"No?" He grabs his phone, scrolls to the article that's just published, and reads it aloud. "'Chef Morgan's delicate handling of the native mountain trout showcases his reverence for local ingredients, the pine-smoked flavor evoking memories of wilderness campfires.' Tell me, Audrey—or should I call you byyour byline?—was that before or after I took you against the refrigerator door?"
My cheeks flame with shame. Not because the words aren't true—they are, every syllable written from my heart—but because the timing makes them seem calculating, crafted from our intimacy rather than my honest assessment.
"I wastryingto tell you." The protest sounds hollow even to me.
"When?" Hunter slams his phone down on the steel prep table. The clatter makes me flinch. "After publication? After you left town? Or were you planning to ghost me completely, disappear back to your city life with your secret intact?"
"Today. I came here to tell youtoday. I’ve been trying to tell you all day."
A harsh laugh escapes him. "Convenient timing."
The kitchen feels suddenly airless, the walls closing in around us. Staff members hover at the periphery, pretending not to watch the implosion of whatever Hunter and I were building.
"The review is good." I reach for him, but he steps back as if my touch might burn. "I fought my editor to publish it this way. She wanted something more sensational, more..."
"More like what The Executioner usually writes?" His voice drops dangerously low. "Is that supposed to make me feel special? Grateful?"
"I'm not asking for gratitude. I'm asking for understanding." Tears press hot behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. "What happened between us—that wasn't research or manipulation. It was real."
"Was it?" Hunter rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "How would I know? Everything about you has been a lie."
"Not everything." I step forward, desperation making me brave. "Not how I feel about you. Not what happened in thegreenhouse, or the cabin, or in your kitchen. Not how you've made me feel more alive in a week than I've felt in years."
Something flickers in his eyes for a heartbeat—a momentary softening, a willingness to listen. Then the kitchen door swings open, and Lucas Reid strides in, oblivious to the emotional carnage he's walking into.
"Hunter! Have you seen the review?" Lucas's face glows with triumph, tablet clutched in his hand. "The Executioner—THE Executioner—just called Timberline 'the most exciting culinary destination in the mountain region.' Reservations are already pouring in."
Hunter's gaze slides from Lucas to me, the betrayal fresh and raw in his expression.
"Lucas," Hunter's voice is controlled and professional. "Meet Audrey Tristan, food critic and The Executioner herself."
Lucas blinks, looking between us as realization dawns. "You're?—"
