Updated Apr 12, 2026 • ~9 min read
Chapter 3: Worst Nightmare
Quinn
The cabin is approximately four hundred square feet of Quinn’s worst nightmare.
One room that serves as bedroom, living room, and kitchen combined, rustic in the way that means “no modern conveniences,” and dominated by a fireplace that Cole is currently coaxing to life with the kind of competence that should not be attractive but absolutely is.
Quinn’s still standing frozen—literally and figuratively—in the middle of the space, trying to process how her simple serve-papers-and-leave plan turned into being trapped in a remote cabin with the man she’s actively suing.
“You should take off those wet clothes,” Cole says without looking at her, focused on the fire. “Hypothermia is a real concern.”
Quinn looks down at herself—jeans soaked from the knee down, jacket covered in snow that’s melting, fingers so cold they hurt.
She’s from Seattle.
She knows rain.
She does not know this level of cold that feels like it’s seeping into her bones.
“There are dry clothes in the storage chest,” Cole continues, nodding toward a wooden trunk against the wall. “Take what you need. I’ll keep my back turned.”
The storage chest contains an eclectic mix of oversized flannels, sweatpants, thick socks, and what appears to be someone’s ancient ski gear from the nineties.
Everything is way too big.
Everything smells like cedar and woodsmoke.
Quinn grabs the warmest-looking items and changes quickly while Cole maintains his position by the fireplace, true to his word about not looking, which somehow makes this whole situation both better and worse.
Better because she’s not being leered at.
Worse because now she’s wondering why he’s being so decent when he has every reason to be difficult.
“You can turn around,” Quinn says once she’s dressed in sweatpants that she has to roll three times at the waist and a flannel that hangs to her mid-thigh. “I look ridiculous but at least I’m dry.”
Cole turns, and something flickers in his expression—amusement maybe, or something else Quinn can’t quite read.
“You look warm. That’s what matters.”
He’s already changed too, wearing dry jeans and a thermal shirt that clings to shoulders that definitely come from actual physical labor, and Quinn forcibly directs her attention literally anywhere else.
The fire is catching now, warmth starting to spread through the cabin, and Cole moves to what passes for a kitchen—a counter with a camp stove, some shelves, and a cooler.
“Emergency supplies,” he explains, pulling out canned goods and dried pasta. “Enough food for a week if we’re careful. Water’s from the well outside but that’ll freeze, so we’ll need to melt snow. No electricity. No running water. Cell service is nonexistent even in good weather.”
Quinn’s anxiety spikes. “So we’re completely cut off.”
“From the outside world? Yeah. Storm like this, even emergency services can’t get through. We’re on our own until it clears.”
“How long?”
“Depends on the storm. Could be three days. Could be a week.”
A week.
Trapped in a tiny cabin with Cole Hartford.
The man she’s suing.
The man who’s built like he could bench press her Prius.
The man who’s currently looking at her with an expression she can’t quite read and absolutely should not be trying to interpret.
“This is fine,” Quinn says, forcing professional composure. “We’re both adults. We can maintain appropriate boundaries and coexist until rescue arrives.”
“Appropriate boundaries,” Cole repeats, and there’s definitely amusement in his voice now. “Right. Because we’re going to maintain formality while sharing a four-hundred-square-foot cabin and one bed.”
“You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Floor’s freezing. You’ll die of hypothermia.”
“Then I’ll take the bed and you take the floor—”
“Same problem. Plus I’m twice your size and won’t fit comfortably.”
“We could take turns—”
“Or we could be practical and share the bed like adults.” He says it so matter-of-factly that Quinn almost misses the implications. “It’s big enough for two if we keep to our sides. Body heat will help keep us warm when the fire dies down at night.”
“Absolutely not—”
“Ms. Fitzgerald, we’re in a survival situation. Whatever personal or professional issues exist between us, staying alive takes priority. The bed is the warmest spot in the cabin. We both need to sleep. And neither of us is dying of pride.”
He’s right and Quinn hates it.
Hates that he’s being practical and reasonable when she wants him to be difficult so she can justify her anger.
Hates that the bed does look warm and the floor looks freezing.
Hates that the thought of sharing a bed with Cole Hartford makes her stomach do something that is definitely not professional.
“Fine,” she says through gritted teeth. “But boundaries. Clear boundaries.”
“I’ll build a pillow wall if it makes you feel better.”
“It does not make me feel better.”
“Noted.”
He starts making dinner—actual dinner, not just heating cans—and Quinn watches in reluctant fascination as he efficiently preps pasta, sauce from canned tomatoes, and somehow makes it smell actually good.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” she asks despite herself.
“Mom taught me. Dad died when I was sixteen. Had to help out more.” He says it casually, but Quinn remembers the file mentioned his father’s death. “Plus, being able to feed yourself is basic survival. You cook?”
“I can order excellent takeout.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means you’re exactly what I expected. Seattle lawyer who’s never had to do anything for herself because money solves all problems.”
Quinn’s temper flares. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you drive a Prius that costs forty thousand dollars. Wear heels that cost more than my workers make in a week. Went to law school where?” He glances at her. “Let me guess. Georgetown? Stanford?”
“Yale,” Quinn says coldly.
“Yale. Of course. Probably grew up in Mercer Island or Bellevue, had a trust fund that paid for your education, and now you work for an environmental firm that lets you feel good about saving the world while never actually having to make the hard choices real people face.”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions—”
“Am I wrong?”
Quinn wants to lie.
Wants to tell him he’s completely off base.
But he’s not, and that makes it worse.
“I grew up in Bellevue,” she admits. “Yes, my family has money. Yes, I went to Yale. But I walked away from the trust fund. I pay my own way. And I work for an environmental firm because I actually care about protecting the planet, not because it makes me feel good.”
Cole looks at her—really looks—and something shifts in his expression.
“You walked away from family money?”
“I didn’t want to owe them anything. Didn’t want to be another Fitzgerald following the prescribed path.” She’s not sure why she’s telling him this. “They wanted me in corporate law. Making real money. I chose environmental work instead.”
“Environmental work that’s trying to shut down my business.”
“Environmental work that’s trying to protect wetlands that provide essential ecosystem services—”
“Here we go,” Cole mutters.
“—that prevent flooding, filter water, provide habitat for endangered species, and serve as carbon sinks that help mitigate climate change.” Quinn’s on solid ground now, this argument she knows. “Your construction project destroys all of that for what? Fifteen houses that’ll sell to wealthy people who’ll live there six months a year?”
“Fifty jobs for local workers. Tax revenue for schools. Economic development for a town that’s been dying since the mine closed.”
“There are other ways to create jobs that don’t destroy irreplaceable ecosystem—”
“You know what’s irreplaceable? My workers’ ability to feed their families. Their kids’ schools. The local hospital that needs tax revenue to stay open.”
“So we sacrifice the environment for short-term economic gain?”
“So we let people keep their homes and livelihoods instead of putting theory over practice.”
They’re standing now, facing off across the tiny cabin, and Quinn’s chest is heaving with fury and frustration and something else she absolutely refuses to name.
Cole’s jaw is tight, his hands clenched, and he’s looking at her like she’s both the most infuriating person he’s ever met and something he can’t quite look away from.
“This is going to be a long week,” he finally says.
“I’m aware.”
“We need to establish rules.”
“Agreed.”
“No discussing the lawsuit. No environmental debates. No politics, religion, or anything that’ll make us want to kill each other in an enclosed space.”
“Fine. What do we talk about?”
“Literally anything else.”
They eat dinner in tense silence, sitting as far apart as possible in a space that doesn’t really allow for distance.
The pasta is good—Quinn refuses to tell him this but it is—and by the time they’re done, the sun is setting and the temperature in the cabin is dropping despite the fire.
“Bed,” Cole says, and Quinn’s brain helpfully supplies several inappropriate interpretations of that single word.
“I should—”
“You should sleep. We both should. Tomorrow we’ll figure out a routine. For now, just—” he gestures to the bed, which is covered in blankets and looks warm and inviting and absolutely terrifying.
Quinn gets in first, staying as close to the edge as possible.
Cole gets in after, maintaining careful distance, and the mattress dips under his weight in a way that makes Quinn hyper-aware of every inch between them.
“Pillow wall?” he offers.
“Please.”
He builds a wall of pillows down the center of the bed, creating a clear demarcation line that should make Quinn feel safer.
Instead, she’s staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the fact that Cole Hartford is less than two feet away, that she can hear his breathing, that the last person she shared a bed with was Trevor six months ago and that relationship ended because he said she was “too intense about work.”
“Goodnight, Ms. Fitzgerald,” Cole says into the darkness.
“Quinn,” she hears herself say. “If we’re going to be trapped together, you can call me Quinn.”
There’s a pause.
Then: “Goodnight, Quinn.”
And Quinn falls asleep trying very hard not to think about how her name sounds in that deep, rough voice, or what it might sound like under different circumstances.
(This is a terrible idea.
All of this.
But she’s stuck here now, and there’s nothing to do but survive it.
The storm.
The cabin.
And whatever the hell is happening between her and the man on the other side of the pillow wall.)
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