Updated Apr 12, 2026 • ~10 min read
Chapter 2: Asshole
Cole
Cole Hartford knows he’s being an asshole.
He knows it the moment Quinn Fitzgerald walks into his construction site wearing a suit that probably costs more than his monthly equipment rental, heels that have no business being anywhere near mud, and an expression that says she’s used to winning and expects this to be no different.
He knows it when he deliberately makes her wait twenty minutes in the cold.
Knows it when he refuses to sign the acknowledgment of service just to make her job harder.
And he definitely knows it now, sitting in his truck outside the Grind at six AM the next morning, watching her try the door to the coffee shop and finding it locked despite the “Open” sign clearly visible and Betty Henderson definitely inside pretending not to see the Seattle lawyer who’s here to destroy everything Cole’s spent the last five years building.
He should feel vindicated.
The town rallying around him, protecting their own, making it clear that outsiders who want to dictate how Montana manages Montana land aren’t welcome.
Instead he feels like an asshole.
Because Quinn Fitzgerald looked genuinely surprised yesterday when Betty refused her service, like she actually expected to be treated like a regular customer instead of the enemy, and something about her expression—hurt quickly covered by professional composure—made Cole’s chest do something uncomfortable that he’s been trying to ignore for the past sixteen hours.
She’s still standing at the coffee shop door, briefcase in hand, clearly trying to decide if she should knock or accept defeat, and Cole makes a decision that’s definitely going to bite him in the ass later.
He gets out of his truck.
Walks across the street.
And knocks on the Grind’s door loud enough that Betty can’t pretend she doesn’t hear it.
Betty opens up with a smile that dies the moment she sees Quinn standing behind Cole.
“Morning Betty,” Cole says pleasantly. “Two coffees to go. Black for me, and—” he glances at Quinn, “—whatever Ms. Fitzgerald wants.”
“Cole, I already told her—” Betty starts, but Cole cuts her off.
“She’s going to be in town at least another day because of the storm. And we’re not going to be the kind of town that refuses basic services to visitors just because we don’t like why they’re here.” He says it gently, but there’s steel underneath. “Two coffees, Betty. Please.”
Betty looks like she wants to argue, but Cole Hartford has lived in Cedar Ridge his entire thirty years, his family helped found this town, and when he asks for something politely, people generally give it to him.
She makes the coffees.
Quinn orders a latte with oat milk, which is exactly the kind of Seattle order Cole expected, and he pays for both drinks before Quinn can protest.
They end up standing on the sidewalk in the early morning cold, holding coffee cups and not quite looking at each other, and Cole thinks that this might be the most awkward he’s felt since sophomore year when he tried to ask Emma Sullivan to prom and accidentally asked her twin sister instead.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Quinn says finally.
“Town’s being childish. You’re here to do your job. Doesn’t mean you should be punished for it.”
“Your job is what I’m here to stop.”
“Yeah. I’m aware.” He takes a drink of coffee, watches a snowflake land on Quinn’s perfectly styled hair. “Storm’s coming in faster than they predicted. You got a flight booked?”
“This morning. Ten AM out of Billings.”
“You’re not going to make it.”
She looks at him sharply. “The airport’s an hour away—”
“In good conditions. Storm’s already starting. Roads are going to be impassable by eight, maybe sooner.” He nods toward her Prius parked outside the motel. “And that thing definitely won’t make it even if the roads were clear. It’s rear-wheel drive and has the ground clearance of a skateboard.”
“It’s all-wheel drive—”
“It’s a Prius. I’ve seen them stuck in three inches of snow. This storm is going to drop two feet minimum, probably more.”
Quinn’s jaw tightens, and Cole recognizes the expression—she’s calculating, trying to figure out if he’s lying to mess with her or if he’s actually being helpful.
“So what do you suggest?” she asks carefully.
“I suggest you reschedule your flight for next week, settle in at the motel, and prepare to be snowed in for three to five days minimum.”
“The motel kicked me out.”
Cole blinks. “What?”
“Your friendly desk clerk told me they’re ‘fully booked’ and I need to leave. Which is obviously retaliation for the lawsuit, but proving it would take longer than just finding alternative lodging.” She says it matter-of-factly, but there’s frustration underneath. “I was planning to drive to Billings this morning, stay near the airport.”
“You’ll die if you try to drive to Billings in this storm.”
“I’m from Seattle. I can drive in snow—”
“Seattle gets what, five inches a year? Maybe? And the whole city shuts down?” Cole knows he’s being condescending but he doesn’t care because Quinn Fitzgerald genuinely doesn’t understand how dangerous this storm is going to be. “This is Montana. This is a blizzard that’s going to shut down highways and trap people in their cars and kill anyone stupid enough to think their city driving skills are sufficient.”
“So what exactly am I supposed to do?” Her professional composure is cracking, and Cole can see real worry underneath. “The motel won’t take me, there’s no other lodging, and apparently I’m going to die if I try to leave. Are you suggesting I just camp in my car?”
He should say yes.
Should let her figure it out herself.
Should definitely not offer what he’s about to offer.
“I’m driving to Billings,” Cole hears himself say. “Heading out in twenty minutes. I can get you to the airport before the worst of the storm hits. My truck can handle conditions your Prius can’t.”
Quinn stares at him like he’s suggested they rob a bank together.
“You’re offering to drive me to the airport.”
“I’m offering to make sure a visitor to our town doesn’t die in a storm because my neighbors decided to be assholes about a lawsuit.”
“You’re part of the lawsuit. You have every reason to want me gone.”
“I want you gone legally and safely, not frozen to death in a ditch because Cedar Ridge couldn’t act like civilized people.” He checks his watch. “You’ve got twenty minutes to decide. I’m leaving at six-thirty whether you’re in my truck or not.”
She studies him, clearly trying to figure out the angle, the trap, the reason he’s helping her.
Cole doesn’t have a good answer.
Just knows that letting Quinn Fitzgerald drive into a blizzard alone feels wrong in a way that has nothing to do with the lawsuit and everything to do with the fact that she looked genuinely hurt yesterday when Betty refused her coffee.
“Fine,” Quinn says finally. “Thank you. I’ll be ready.”
“Bring warm clothes. Real winter gear, not whatever Seattle considers cold weather clothing.”
“I have a North Face jacket—”
“Bring it. And anything else you’ve got. Just in case.”
She wants to argue—he can see it in the way her jaw sets—but instead she nods and heads back to the motel to pack.
Cole finishes his coffee and tries not to think about how spending two hours in a truck with Quinn Fitzgerald is either the stupidest thing he’s done all week or the start of something that’s going to make the lawsuit look simple by comparison.
Twenty minutes later, Quinn appears with two bags and a determined expression, wearing jeans that fit in a way Cole absolutely should not notice, winter boots that look brand new, and that North Face jacket that’s definitely not going to be enough if they get stuck.
“You’re going to freeze in that,” he says, throwing her bags in the truck bed.
“It’s rated for twenty degrees—”
“It’s going to be five below with wind chill. Get in. I’ve got extra gear.”
The truck’s already warm, heat blasting, and Cole hands Quinn a thermos of coffee that’s actually good—he made it at home, not from Betty’s commercial machine—and watches her surprised expression when she tastes it.
“You made this?”
“I know how to make coffee, Ms. Fitzgerald. We’re not complete barbarians in Montana.”
“I didn’t—” she starts, but he’s already pulling onto Main Street, heading for the highway that’ll take them to Billings.
They make it fifteen miles.
The storm hits like a wall—visibility dropping to zero in seconds, wind screaming, snow coming down so fast and thick that Cole can’t see the hood of his truck, let alone the road.
He slows to a crawl, then stops completely when he can’t tell where the pavement ends and the ditch begins.
“What’s happening?” Quinn asks, and there’s fear in her voice that she’s trying to hide.
“White-out conditions. Can’t see anything. Pulling over until it clears.”
“How long will that take?”
Cole looks at the wall of white outside his windshield, checks the weather radar on his phone that shows the storm intensifying instead of clearing, and makes a decision.
“It’s not going to clear. Storm’s worse than predicted. We need shelter.”
“There’s nothing out here—”
“My family owns a cabin about two miles off the highway. Emergency shelter for situations exactly like this.”
“Two miles in a blizzard—”
“Two miles I can navigate with GPS and pure stubbornness.” He shifts the truck into four-wheel drive. “Hold on. This is going to be rough.”
It’s worse than rough.
It’s terrifying, even for Cole who’s driven in Montana winters his entire life, and he can hear Quinn’s sharp breathing beside him as the truck crawls through snow that’s already a foot deep and getting deeper.
But he knows this land.
Knows where the cabin is even when GPS starts glitching from the interference.
And twenty minutes of white-knuckle driving later, the cabin’s dark shape emerges from the storm.
“We’re here,” Cole says, relief flooding through him. “Grab your bags. Move fast. Stay behind me and hold onto my jacket.”
They stumble through snow that’s already past Quinn’s knees, wind so strong it nearly knocks her over, and Cole has to physically pull her the last few feet to the cabin door.
Inside, it’s freezing and dark.
But it’s shelter.
And as Cole locks the door against the storm and turns to see Quinn standing in the middle of the single-room cabin, shivering and wide-eyed, he realizes exactly how bad this situation is.
One room.
One bed.
No power.
No cell service.
And the woman who’s trying to destroy his life’s work is going to be trapped here with him for at least three days.
Maybe longer.
“Welcome to Hartford family cabin,” Cole says, already moving to start a fire because if he doesn’t keep moving he’s going to think about what this means. “Hope you’re comfortable with rustic living, Ms. Fitzgerald. Because we’re not going anywhere for a while.”
Quinn looks at him, then at the cabin, then at the single bed against the far wall.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she says.
And Cole thinks: Yeah. This is definitely going to be a problem.
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