Updated Apr 12, 2026 • ~8 min read
Chapter 14: You Slept Together
Cole
Cole’s mother takes one look at him and Quinn sitting awkwardly at the dinner table and says, “So. You slept together.”
Quinn chokes on her water.
Cole sighs. “Mom—”
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. I’ve known you for thirty years, Cole. I can tell when you’ve developed feelings for someone, and you’re looking at that girl like she hung the moon.” Margaret serves pot roast with the same efficiency she does everything. “The question is whether you’ve thought through the implications or if you’re just following your heart without engaging your brain.”
“Can we maybe not have this conversation—”
“We’re having it. Quinn, honey, eat your vegetables. Cole, explain to me how you think this works when she’s still representing the firm suing us.”
Quinn finds her voice. “I took a leave of absence. One month. To figure out if there’s a compromise solution.”
Margaret pauses mid-serving. “You took a leave of absence from your job to work with Cole on the project you were trying to shut down?”
“Yes.”
“And your firm was okay with this?”
“Not remotely. But I did it anyway.”
Margaret looks between them, then sets down the serving spoon and sits. “Okay. Tell me everything. From the beginning. How did ‘trapped in a cabin’ become ‘taking a leave of absence to work together’?”
So they tell her—edited version, obviously, leaving out the intimacy but including the conversations about environmental impact and economic reality, Cole’s willingness to consider modification, Quinn’s expertise in environmental science, the mutual realization that maybe there’s a solution that serves both their goals.
Margaret listens without interrupting, which is unusual for her, and when they’re done she’s quiet for a long moment.
“You love her,” she finally says to Cole.
“Yes.”
“And you—” She turns to Quinn. “You love my stubborn son.”
“Yes,” Quinn says quietly.
“And you think you can redesign the project in one month to satisfy both environmental requirements and economic viability.”
“We can try,” Cole says.
“And if you can’t? If the month ends and you haven’t found a compromise?”
That’s the question neither of them wants to answer.
Quinn looks at her plate. “Then I go back to Seattle and the lawsuit proceeds and we—we end things before they get more complicated.”
“More complicated than falling in love with opposing counsel in a lawsuit that could bankrupt the family business?” Margaret’s tone is dry. “Honey, I don’t think it gets more complicated than this.”
“Mom, if you’re not supportive—” Cole starts, but Margaret waves him off.
“I didn’t say I’m not supportive. I’m saying you two have created a situation that would give a relationship counselor nightmares.” She stands, starts clearing plates. “But I also watched you these past six months get more and more stressed about this lawsuit, more worried about your workers, more convinced there was no good solution. And now you’re talking about compromise and environmental mitigation and actually working WITH someone instead of against them. So if Quinn makes you willing to find middle ground instead of just fighting to win, then I’m supportive.”
“Really?” Quinn sounds surprised.
“Really. Though I reserve the right to be concerned about the timeline and the complications and the fact that you’re basing a major life decision on one week in a cabin.” Margaret starts washing dishes. “One month is what you have. Use it wisely. Don’t just fall deeper in love—actually solve the problem you’re here to solve. Because if you can’t find that compromise, the love won’t be enough to sustain this.”
It’s brutally practical and exactly what Cole needed to hear.
“You’re right,” he says.
“I’m always right. You’d know this by now if you listened to your mother more often.” She hands him a dish towel. “Dry. Quinn, you can put away. Might as well learn where things go if you’re staying for a month.”
They fall into domestic routine—washing, drying, putting away—and Cole catches his mother watching them with an expression he can’t quite read.
After dinner, Cole takes Quinn to his office in the barn—converted from the old tack room, now containing his computer and drafting table and all the project files for Cedar Ridge Meadows.
“This is the original plan,” he says, spreading out blueprints. “Fifteen houses, clustered development, maximum land use for economic return.”
Quinn studies the plans with professional focus. “And the wetlands are here—” She traces the area. “You’re building directly on critical habitat.”
“Because we didn’t realize it was critical habitat. The initial survey said it was just standard wetland, nothing particularly valuable.”
“The initial survey was incomplete. A proper hydrology assessment shows—” She grabs a pen, starts sketching over the blueprints. “The water table feeds through here, drainage patterns go this direction, if you build here you’re cutting off the entire ecosystem’s water supply.”
“So what’s the solution?”
Quinn thinks, pen hovering. “Reduce the footprint. Ten houses instead of fifteen. Cluster them here—” She indicates a different area. “Higher ground, less impact on water flow. Preserve this entire section as protected wetland buffer. And implement green infrastructure—rain gardens, bioswales, permeable paving—to manage runoff.”
“Ten houses means less revenue. I need fifteen to make the numbers work.”
“What if the ten houses were higher-end? Market them as ‘eco-luxury’—premium pricing for people who want mountain living without environmental guilt. You might make the same revenue on fewer houses.”
Cole considers this. “That could work. But my investors bought in expecting fifteen units.”
“So present them with a revised plan that shows how ten premium units generate equivalent returns with lower risk. Point out that environmental compliance eliminates lawsuit risk, which is a significant financial consideration.”
They spend the next three hours going through the details—Cole providing construction and economic expertise, Quinn providing environmental science and regulatory knowledge—and by the end they have the skeleton of a plan that might actually work.
“This is good,” Quinn says, stepping back to look at their revised blueprints. “This is really good. If we can flesh out the details, get formal hydrology assessments, model the economic projections—”
“We can do this,” Cole finishes. “We can actually find a compromise that works.”
“Maybe. If your investors agree and if my firm doesn’t completely shut it down and if the regulatory agencies approve the modified design.”
“That’s a lot of ifs.”
“Welcome to environmental law. It’s all ifs and maybes and hoping you can thread an impossible needle.”
Cole pulls her close, kisses her forehead. “But we have a shot.”
“We have a shot,” Quinn agrees.
They work until midnight—Quinn making calls to environmental consultants she knows who might expedite assessments, Cole running numbers and contacting his architect about design modifications—and when they finally stumble back to the main house, both exhausted, Margaret has left a note on the kitchen counter.
“Guest room is made up for Quinn. Cole, your room is still your room. I trust you both to make appropriate adult decisions, but remember I’m a light sleeper and these walls aren’t that thick. – M”
Quinn reads the note and laughs. “Your mother is not subtle.”
“She’s extremely subtle by Margaret Hartford standards. That was practically her blessing.”
“Her blessing comes with a warning about thin walls.”
“Fair point.”
They stand in the kitchen, both aware that they should probably sleep in separate rooms to maintain some semblance of propriety, both not wanting to.
“I should—” Quinn gestures toward the guest room.
“Yeah. You should.”
Neither of them moves.
“Although,” Quinn says slowly, “your mother did say she trusts us to make adult decisions.”
“She did say that.”
“And we are adults.”
“Technically yes.”
“So if we decided that sleeping in the same bed was an adult decision we felt comfortable making—”
Cole kisses her, cutting off the rationalization. “My room. Now. Before I try to do this quietly in the kitchen and definitely wake my mother.”
Quinn grins against his mouth. “Your room. Lead the way.”
They try to be quiet—really, they do—but Cole’s room is directly above the kitchen and at one point Quinn has to bite his shoulder to muffle sound, and in the morning they come downstairs to find Margaret drinking coffee with an expression that clearly says “I told you the walls were thin.”
But she doesn’t say anything except “French toast or pancakes?” and Cole thinks that maybe his mother really is supportive, in her own blunt practical way.
And maybe—just maybe—they can actually make this work.
For one month.
And then figure out what happens after.
One day at a time.
One terrible decision leading to another.
Until hopefully they add up to something beautiful.
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