Page 49 of Matched with the Small Town Chef
I pull out my laptop, open a document, and begin to write the first letter, not as the Executioner, but as Audrey.
Just Audrey.
My phone rings as I finish, an unknown local number. Probably the front desk confirming checkout details. I answer distractedly, still lost in the words I've written.
"Is this Audrey Tristan?" A familiar voice, though not Hunter's.
"Yes, this is Audrey."
"It's Miguel, Hunter's sous chef." His voice is low, urgent. "There's something you need to know. Lucas is replacing Hunter at Timberline."
The world shifts beneath me, pieces clicking into a terrible place. Lucas’s eagerness about the review, his mention of "ideas" for capitalizing on the publicity, and the tension I'd sensed between the two men.
"What do you mean, replacing him?"
"Lucas thinks Timberline needs a more commercial chef now that it's getting national attention. Someone who'll create Instagram-worthy dishes, play to the crowds." Miguel's voice drips with disgust. "He's giving Hunter a choice—change his cooking style or step down."
"But the review celebrated Hunter's cooking exactly as it is." My stomach twists with the irony. The very success I helped create might cost Hunter everything.
"Lucas thinks your review creates an opportunity to 'elevate' the concept. Whatever that means."
"When is this happening?"
"Meeting tomorrow morning. Hunter doesn't know I'm calling you. He'd probably kill me if he did. But you got it right—in the review. About his food, about what makes this place special. And I thought..." Miguel hesitates. "I thought maybe you could help."
The request hangs between us, impossible and necessary all at once.
"I'll be there." The words come without conscious thought, certainty replacing hesitation. I'm not leaving Angel's Peak. Not yet.
I hang up and look at my half-packed suitcase. Slowly and deliberately, I return items to the drawers. The sweater. The dress. The shirt. Artifacts of a week that changed everything—and might yet lead somewhere after all.
13
The Fight
Sleep evades me entirely. I spend the night crafting arguments and rehearsing speeches, and then discard them all as insufficient.
The truth is both simple and complicated: I love Hunter Morgan. I love how he touches herbs with reverence, the intensity in his eyes when he describes a dish, and the gentleness in his hands that belies their strength. I love the chef, the man, the soul beneath both. And I've hurt him in the worst possible way.
Dawn breaks over the mountains, painting my room in a golden light that feels undeserved. I dress carefully—jeans, boots, and a forest-green sweater that Hunter once said brought out flecks of gold in my eyes. Armor of a different sort than my usual city black.
The Haven stirs to life around me as I make my way downstairs. Staff members nod politely, unaware of yesterday's drama or too professional to acknowledge it. In the dining room, a small group is gathered outside the private meeting room—Lucas Reid's sanctum. Hunter stands among them, his back to me, shoulders rigid beneath his chef's jacket.
Miguel notices me first. His eyes widen in surprise and then relief. He tilts his head toward the meeting room door, silently telling me to step in.
"What's happening?" As I approach, I keep my voice low, directing the question to Miguel rather than risk Hunter's rejection.
"Lucas called a staff meeting. Said he has exciting news about Timberline's future." Miguel's expression says everything about what kind of "exciting" this news will be.
Hunter turns at the sound of my voice. The flash of emotion across his face is too complex to decipher—anger, yes, but something else beneath it. His eyes linger on my sweater for a heartbeat before his expression closes again.
"You're still here." Flat, uninflected.
"Had a change of plans." I hold his gaze, refusing to look away despite the discomfort pulsing between us.
"This is a private staff meeting." Each word is precisely enunciated, a chef's knife slicing through any pretense of civility.
"I invited her." Miguel straightens his spine, bracing for Hunter's reaction. "We need her."
