Updated Apr 12, 2026 • ~10 min read
Chapter 10: Adorable
Cole
Watching Quinn Fitzgerald attempt to cook is both adorable and mildly terrifying.
“I said dice the canned tomatoes,” Cole says, watching her hack at them with a knife like she’s performing surgery on something that might fight back. “Not massacre them.”
“I am dicing them—”
“You’re creating tomato carnage. Here—” He moves behind her, covers her hands with his, shows her the proper motion. “Small, even pieces. Like this.”
Quinn’s tense at first, then gradually relaxes into his guidance, and Cole’s acutely aware of how domestic this is—teaching her to cook in a cabin kitchen while snow falls outside, her back against his chest, moving together like they’ve done this a hundred times before.
Dangerous thoughts.
The kind of thoughts that lead to wanting things he can’t have.
Like Quinn in his actual kitchen at the ranch, learning to make his mother’s recipes.
Like Sunday mornings teaching her to cook breakfast while she complains about Montana mornings starting too early.
Like a future that involves more than just these stolen days in a cabin where reality doesn’t exist.
“Better?” Quinn asks, showing him her improved dicing technique.
“Much better. Now add them to the pot.”
They’re making what passes for pasta sauce from cabin emergency supplies—canned tomatoes, dried herbs, the last of the shelf-stable garlic—and Cole’s discovered that Quinn wasn’t kidding about being terrible at cooking.
She doesn’t know how to properly use a knife.
Can’t tell when water is actually boiling versus just “slightly hot.”
Tried to add pasta to cold water and seemed genuinely confused when Cole stopped her.
“Did you seriously never learn to cook?” Cole asks, stirring the sauce while Quinn watches with intense focus like she’s studying for an exam.
“My family had a chef growing up. Then in college I lived on dining hall food. Law school was coffee and takeout. Then as a lawyer—” She shrugs. “You can get everything delivered in Seattle. Why cook when someone else can do it better?”
“Because cooking for yourself is satisfying. And it’s a basic survival skill.”
“I survive fine with Thai delivery and meal subscription boxes.”
“What happens when you’re not in Seattle? What happens if you’re somewhere without delivery?”
“I pack protein bars. Or I find a diner.” She pauses. “Or apparently I get trapped in a cabin with someone who knows how to make actual food from canned goods.”
Cole grins. “Lucky you.”
“Lucky me,” Quinn echoes, and there’s something in her voice that makes Cole look at her—something soft and genuine that has nothing to do with the food and everything to do with him.
“Come here,” he says, making a decision. “You’re going to actually make the sauce this time. I’ll supervise.”
“I’m going to ruin it—”
“You’re not going to ruin it. It’s pasta sauce, not rocket science. Here—” He hands her the spoon, positions her in front of the camp stove, then moves behind her with his hands on her hips—ostensibly to guide her, actually because he wants to touch her and he’s run out of excuses not to.
“Stir gently,” Cole instructs. “You want to combine the flavors, not destroy them.”
“I’m stirring gently—”
“You’re stirring like you’re angry at the sauce. Slower.”
Quinn adjusts, and Cole keeps his hands on her hips, telling himself he’s just making sure she doesn’t burn anything, definitely not thinking about how good she feels pressed against him or how easy it would be to lean down and kiss her neck.
“How do I know when it’s done?” Quinn asks.
“When it tastes right. Here—” He reaches around her for the spoon, gets a small amount of sauce. “Taste test.”
Quinn tastes, makes a considering sound. “It needs something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, I’m not a cook. You tell me.”
Cole tastes it himself, thinking. “Little more basil. And maybe some pepper.”
Quinn adds both, stirs, tastes again. “Better.”
“See? You can cook.”
“I can follow instructions while you do everything else. Different skill.”
“It’s a start.”
They’re swaying slightly, moving together in the small space, and Cole realizes this is the most content he’s felt in years—just standing in a cabin kitchen teaching someone how to make basic pasta sauce, nothing complicated or difficult, just simple and warm and right.
“I could get used to this,” Quinn says quietly, like she’s voicing Cole’s exact thoughts.
“Used to what? Cooking?”
“This. Us. The domestic routine thing.” She turns in his arms so she’s facing him, the sauce momentarily forgotten. “I’ve never had this with anyone. The casual intimacy where we’re just existing together without it being complicated.”
“Quinn, this is extremely complicated—”
“I know. In the real world, yes. But here—” She gestures around the cabin. “Here it’s simple. We cook together and argue about reality TV and sleep in the same bed and it just works. I’ve never had that with anyone.”
Cole knows he should step back, maintain the boundaries they keep pretending exist.
Instead he cups her face with one hand, runs his thumb along her cheekbone.
“I’ve never had it either,” he admits. “Not like this. Not where it feels easy even when it should be impossible.”
“What are we doing, Cole?”
“I have no idea. But I don’t want to stop.”
“Me neither.”
They’re staring at each other, inches apart, the sauce bubbling behind Quinn, and Cole thinks that this is the moment—this is when he should kiss her, when the tension finally breaks into something physical and real and undeniable.
But before he can close the distance, Quinn turns back to the stove, breaking the spell.
“Sauce is going to burn,” she says, her voice shaky.
“Right. Sauce.”
Cole steps back, gives her space, tries to calm his racing heart.
They finish making dinner together—Quinn following his instructions carefully, checking in for every step, actually learning in a way that suggests she might retain this skill beyond the cabin—and by the time they sit down to eat, the tension has shifted back to something manageable.
“This is actually good,” Quinn says, sounding surprised.
“You made it.”
“You made it. I was just your assistant.”
“You did the work. I just supervised.”
“You’re being generous.”
“I’m being accurate. See? You can cook. You just needed someone to teach you.”
Quinn smiles, and it’s the soft private smile she’s started giving him—the one that feels like it’s just for him, not the professional mask or the guarded protection, just genuine Quinn.
“Thank you,” she says. “For teaching me. For being patient. For not making fun of me for being almost thirty and not knowing how to dice tomatoes.”
“Thank you for trusting me enough to learn. And for letting me help instead of insisting you can do everything yourself.”
“I usually do insist on doing everything myself.”
“I’ve noticed. Very Type-A of you.”
“Are you complaining about my personality traits?”
“I’m observing them with fondness.”
“Fondness,” Quinn repeats, testing the word.
“Is that okay? The fondness?”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “It’s very okay.”
They eat dinner talking about nothing important—Quinn’s terrible college cooking disasters, Cole’s mother’s attempts to teach him family recipes, the relative merits of Montana versus Seattle food scenes—and Cole thinks that this is what he wanted without knowing he wanted it.
Not just someone to be with.
Someone to be domestic with.
Someone who makes simple things like cooking dinner feel significant because they’re doing it together.
Quinn offers to clean up—”Since you did all the actual cooking”—and Cole lets her, watching her navigate the cabin’s limited kitchen setup with increasing confidence.
She’s humming while she washes dishes in the bucket of melted snow water.
Actually humming.
Quinn Fitzgerald, who showed up in Cedar Ridge wearing designer heels and a suit of armor made of professional composure, is humming while doing dishes in a cabin with no running water, wearing his oversized flannel, looking more relaxed than Cole’s ever seen her.
And he wants this.
Wants her in his space, in his life, in his future.
Wants to teach her more recipes and watch her get competitive about cooking the way she gets competitive about everything.
Wants Sunday mornings and dinner prep and all the boring domestic routines that somehow aren’t boring at all when it’s Quinn making them interesting.
“You’re staring,” Quinn says without turning around.
“You’re humming.”
“Am I?” She sounds embarrassed. “Sorry. Bad habit.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s cute.”
She does turn around then, dish soap suds on her hands, looking flustered and pleased. “Cute?”
“You’re humming while doing dishes like this is fun instead of a chore necessitated by being trapped in a cabin with no modern amenities. It’s extremely cute.”
“I might be having fun,” Quinn admits. “Is that weird? That I’m having fun being snowed in with no electricity or running water or any of the conveniences I’m used to?”
“It’s not weird. Means you’re more adaptable than you thought.”
“Or it means I like who I’m snowed in with enough that the circumstances don’t matter.”
Cole crosses to her, takes the dish she’s washing, sets it aside.
“Quinn—”
“We have one more day,” she interrupts. “One day left where this is simple and the real world doesn’t exist. And I don’t want to waste it being scared of what I’m feeling.”
“What are you feeling?”
“Like I want you to kiss me. Like I’ve wanted you to kiss me since you taught me to build a fire properly. Like I’m tired of both of us pretending we don’t want this.”
Cole’s heart is pounding so hard he’s sure she can hear it.
“If I kiss you,” he says carefully, “it changes things. We can’t go back to just being friendly cabin mates waiting out a storm.”
“I don’t want to go back. I want to go forward, even if it’s complicated and terrifying and probably a terrible idea.” She steps closer, eliminating the last bit of space between them. “Kiss me, Cole.”
So he does.
Finally.
After six days of tension and wanting and holding back, Cole kisses Quinn Fitzgerald like he’s been dying to do since the moment she looked at him with genuine interest instead of just legal opposition.
She tastes like pasta sauce and coffee and possibility, and she kisses him back like she’s been waiting for this too, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, making a soft sound against his mouth that Cole wants to hear again and again.
It’s supposed to be a simple kiss.
A test, maybe, to see if this thing between them is real or just cabin fever.
But the moment their lips touch, Cole knows—this is real, this is dangerous, this is everything he didn’t know he wanted, and kissing Quinn is either the best decision he’s ever made or the one that’s going to destroy him completely.
Possibly both.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against hers.
“Still think this is a good idea?” he asks.
“Terrible idea,” Quinn whispers. “The worst. Absolutely catastrophic.”
“But?”
“But I’m done being careful. I’m done protecting myself from things that might hurt. I want this. I want you. Even if it’s only for one more day.”
One more day.
Then they’ll be rescued.
Then the real world with all its complications comes crashing back.
But right now, in this cabin, with Quinn in his arms and her lips still tingling from his kiss, Cole decides that one more day is worth whatever heartbreak comes after.
“One more day,” he agrees, kissing her again. “Let’s make it count.”
And Quinn kisses him back like she’s already decided the same thing.
Like maybe one day will have to be enough.
Even though both of them know it won’t be.
Not even close.
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