Chapter 7
Professional Complications
Morning arrives with painful brightness, sunlight streaming through curtains I forgot to close. I groan, rolling over to bury my face in the pillow as memories from yesterday flood back with merciless clarity.
The festival.
The paddle boat disaster.
Lookout Point.
Noah's lips on mine, his hands cradling my face as if I were something precious.
My phone chirps with an incoming text, mercifully interrupting the dangerous path of my thoughts. The screen illuminates with Noah's name—a contact I never deleted, though I told myself I kept it only for professional networking.
Can we meet at The PickAxe tonight? 8pm? Need to discuss what happened. -N
So formal. So unlike the man who kissed me as if a decade of separation had been nothing but a momentary inconvenience.
I type and delete three different responses before settling on a simple: I'll be there.
Professionalism. That's what I need to reclaim. Last night was... a momentary lapse. A nostalgic indulgence. Nothing more.
I repeat this like a mantra as I shower and dress, choosing a sleek blouse and tailored pants that feel like armor—Riley Bennett, professional journalist, not the love-struck teenager who once carved her initials alongside Noah's into the old pine at Lookout Point.
My schedule today includes an interview at The Haven, Angel's Peak's premier lodge and its restaurant, Timberlake.
According to my notes, Chef Hunter Morgan—Noah's cousin, because of course everyone in this town is connected—has pioneered a farm-to-table initiative that's been key to the resort's revitalization.
The Haven perches on a ridge overlooking the valley, its rustic-luxe architecture blending seamlessly with the natural surroundings. Inside, massive timber beams frame walls of windows that showcase spectacular mountain views.
"Ms. Bennett?" A hostess approaches as I enter the soaring lobby. "Chef Morgan is expecting you in the kitchen. This way, please."
She leads me through the elegant dining room, where staff prepare for lunch service, arranging wildflowers on tables draped with crisp linens. The kitchen beyond is a gleaming temple of stainless steel and organized chaos.
Chef Hunter Morgan stands at a central island, knife flashing as he breaks down what appears to be a locally raised chicken with surgical precision.
He has the Morgan family’s good looks—the same dark hair and strong features as Noah’s, though leaner, with tattoos peeking out from beneath his rolled chef's whites.
"Riley Bennett." He looks up, knife pausing mid-cut. "The prodigal journalist returns."
"Chef Morgan." I extend my hand, which he shakes after wiping his on a nearby towel. "Thank you for making time for me."
"Hunter, please." His smile is friendly, if assessing. "And I should be thanking you. Any press for our sustainability program is welcome, especially from a national publication."
For the next hour, Hunter guides me through his kitchen and the adjoining greenhouse, explaining The Haven's commitment to local sourcing.
He introduces me to farmers who provide everything from heritage vegetables to artisanal cheeses, and shows me the computerized system that tracks the carbon footprint of every ingredient.
"The real game-changer was convincing Lucas Reid that luxury doesn't have to mean flying in exotic ingredients.” He offers me a taste of just-picked strawberries that burst with flavor, nothing like their grocery store counterparts.
"Our guests want authenticity—a genuine connection to the place they're visiting. "
I scribble notes, asking follow-up questions about implementation challenges and economic impact. Through it all, I'm hyper-aware that this is Noah's cousin and any misstep could find its way back to him.
"So," Hunter says as our tour concludes, leaning against a prep table with studied casualness. "You're the Riley."
I maintain a neutral expression. "I'm a Riley, yes."
"The Riley. The one my cousin never quite got over." He raises an eyebrow when I remain silent. "Noah helped me get this job, you know. Vouched for me when no one else would. Best man I know."
"I'm not here to write about Noah." The words come out sharper than intended.
Hunter holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Just providing context. We protect our own around here."
"I'm not a threat." The defensiveness in my voice betrays me.
"No?" His gaze is too perceptive. "Then why does he look like someone rewired his entire electrical system since you showed up?"
I have no good answer for this, so I redirect. "The farm-to-table initiative seems to perfectly encapsulate Angel's Peak's revitalization strategy. Would you say that's accurate?"
Hunter accepts the subject change with a knowing smile. "Absolutely. But if you really want the historical perspective, talk to Ruth Fletcher at The PickAxe. Her family's owned it since Prohibition. Nothing happens in this town that Ruth doesn't know about."
"That's next on my agenda, actually." I tuck away my notebook. "Thank you for your time, Chef."
"Hunter," he corrects again, then adds as I turn to leave: "And Riley? Whatever happened between you two... Noah's not the same hotheaded kid he was at eighteen."
I pause at the door. "Neither am I."
His soft chuckle follows me out. "That's what I'm afraid of."
The PickAxe occupies a rough-hewn log building at the far end of Main Street.
According to my research, it began as a miner's saloon in 1912 and has been in the Fletcher family ever since.
A hand-painted sign featuring crossed pickaxes hangs above heavy wooden doors that open into a space that smells of beer, wood smoke, and something delicious simmering from the kitchen.
At this mid-afternoon hour, the bar is relatively quiet.
A few locals nurse drinks at the scarred wooden bar, and tourists occupy several tables, sampling what my research indicates is award-winning chili.
Mining implements and historical photographs cover the walls, telling the story of Angel's Peak's beginnings as a silver mining town.
"Well, look what the mountain lion dragged in." A woman in her sixties emerges from behind the bar, wiping her hands on a towel tucked into her apron. Her silver hair is cropped short, and laugh lines frame sharp eyes that miss nothing. "Riley Bennett. Heard you were back causing trouble."
"Ruth Fletcher?" I extend my hand. "I was hoping to talk with you about Angel's Peak history for my article."
"The famous journalist needs my humble input, does she?" There's no real bite to her words, and her handshake is firm. "Have a seat. First round's on the house—for old times' sake."
I settle at the bar, declining the offered beer in favor of iced tea. Ruth places the drink before me, then leans on the bar, clearly settling in for a good chat.
"So what's this article about? The economic renaissance? The cultural shift? Or just an excuse to see if what you gave up was worth what you got?"
I nearly choke on my tea. "The article is about community resilience and reinvention. How Angel's Peak transformed itself from a struggling tourist town into a sustainable destination."
"Mmm." Ruth's expression suggests she doesn't believe this is the whole story.
"Well, you've come to the right place. The PickAxe has weathered every storm this town has seen—financial crashes, population exodus, that disastrous attempt to rebrand as an 'extreme sports destination' in the early 2000s. "
For the next half hour, Ruth regales me with stories of Angel's Peak's evolution. She's a gifted storyteller, painting vivid pictures of boom-and-bust cycles, community controversies, and colorful characters who shaped the town's development.
But somehow, every anecdote circles back to Noah.
"Of course, when the mill closed, that was a hard blow.
Nearly lost half the town's jobs overnight.
Noah organized a job fair, brought in employers from three counties.
.. The flood of '19 took out the old bridge.
Noah was first on scene, directed the whole evacuation.
.. That observation deck they're building at Lookout Point?
Noah's proposal. Fought the county commissioners for two years to get approval. .."
I jot notes dutifully, trying to filter the useful historical information from the Noah Morgan appreciation narrative.
"You know," Ruth says, refilling my tea without being asked, "that boy was ready to follow you to Chicago back then."
"Excuse me?" The statement lands like a boulder in still water.
"Had applications in to the Chicago Fire Department. Was all set to transfer his credits to a college there." She polishes a glass with methodical precision. "Then you left without looking back, and suddenly his future was right here in Angel's Peak."
"That's not—" I stop, recalibrating. "Noah never told me about any applications."
"Course not. Wanted it to be a surprise." Ruth's gaze is sharp enough to cut glass. "Pride's a terrible thing, isn't it? Makes us do all sorts of foolish things. Like pretending we don't care when our hearts are breaking."
The door opens before I can respond, admitting a group of hikers in search of a late lunch. Ruth moves to serve them, leaving me with her words repeating in my mind like an accusation.
Did Noah really plan to follow me? Why didn't he ever say anything?
I'm still processing this revelation when the door opens again, and the object of my thoughts walks in. Noah pauses when he sees me, surprise flashing across his features before he composes himself and approaches.
"Riley." He settles onto the barstool beside me, nodding to Ruth, who materializes with a beer he apparently doesn't need to order. "I thought we were meeting at eight."
"I'm interviewing Ruth for my article." I gesture to my notebook as if it might shield me from the effect his proximity has on my pulse rate. "The historical perspective."