Updated Apr 12, 2026 • ~8 min read
Chapter 4: Two Problems
Cole
Cole wakes up to two problems.
One: The pillow wall has completely collapsed, and Quinn is pressed against his side, her head on his shoulder, her hand splayed across his chest like she owns it.
Two: He absolutely does not hate this.
Outside, the blizzard is still raging—he can hear the wind howling, feel the temperature drop that suggests the fire burned down in the night—and the smart thing would be to ease away from Quinn, rebuild the wall, maintain the boundaries they established.
Instead, Cole lies very still and tries not to think about how good she smells—lavender and something citrus that definitely came from expensive Seattle products—or how she fits against him like this was always meant to happen.
Quinn shifts, makes a soft sound that does things to Cole’s self-control, and he knows he needs to move before she wakes up and realizes she’s cuddling the enemy.
He extracts himself carefully, replaces his body with a pillow she immediately hugs, and gets out of bed before his body can fully register what waking up with Quinn Fitzgerald feels like.
The cabin is freezing.
Fire’s completely out.
And the storm outside looks worse than yesterday, which he didn’t think was possible.
Cole rebuilds the fire, makes coffee with melted snow water, and is pulling on boots to check the perimeter when Quinn emerges from the blanket cocoon looking sleep-rumpled and confused.
“Morning,” he says, handing her coffee. “Storm’s still going strong. We’re not going anywhere today.”
Quinn takes the coffee, blinks at him like she’s trying to remember where she is, and Cole watches awareness return—the professional mask sliding back into place, shoulders straightening, lawyer Quinn replacing sleep-soft Quinn.
“How bad is it?” she asks.
“Bad. Probably another two feet fell overnight. Drifts are six feet in some places.”
“So we’re stuck.”
“We’re stuck.”
She nods, sips coffee, and Cole pretends not to notice the way his flannel hangs off her shoulder or how her hair is falling out of yesterday’s bun in a way that makes his hands itch to touch it.
“I should—” Quinn gestures vaguely. “Bathroom situation?”
“Outhouse. Fifty feet from the cabin. I’ll shovel a path.”
“There’s no indoor—”
“It’s an emergency shelter, not the Ritz. Outhouse or nothing.”
Quinn looks horrified, which Cole probably shouldn’t find as entertaining as he does.
He shovels a path while she drinks coffee and contemplates her life choices, and when he comes back in she’s examining the bookshelf with an expression of genuine surprise.
“Steinbeck,” she says, holding up The Grapes of Wrath. “And Hemingway. And—is this Thoreau?”
“My grandfather’s collection. He built this cabin. Believed in self-reliance and good literature.”
“I thought—” She stops herself.
“Thought what? That Montana ranchers don’t read?” Cole can’t quite keep the edge out of his voice. “That we’re all just uneducated hicks who don’t understand big words?”
“I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to. You’ve been thinking it since you showed up at my construction site in your expensive suit, talking down to me about environmental impact like I’m too stupid to understand basic science.”
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Quinn says, and she sounds genuine. “I think you’re willfully ignoring the environmental damage because profit matters more than conservation.”
“I think you’re willfully ignoring the human cost because saving the environment sounds noble when you don’t have to live with the economic consequences.”
They’re arguing again, and Cole knows he should stop but there’s something about Quinn Fitzgerald that makes him want to push, to see what happens when her professional composure cracks completely.
“You know what your problem is?” Quinn sets down the book with careful control. “You assume anyone who disagrees with you is elitist. That caring about the environment means I don’t care about people. That’s not how it works.”
“You know what YOUR problem is? You assume you’re morally superior because you work for a nonprofit. That your intentions are pure so your methods don’t matter. That it’s okay to destroy livelihoods as long as you’re saving wetlands.”
“I’m not destroying—”
“You’re bankrupting my company. Putting fifty people out of work. Making it impossible for Cedar Ridge to attract any development because investors see what happened to Hartford Construction and decide Montana’s too risky.”
“Then maybe Montana should have better environmental protections that developers can’t ignore!”
“Maybe Seattle lawyers should actually understand the communities they’re affecting before they swoop in and play hero!”
They’re standing very close now, both breathing hard, and Cole realizes this argument has become something else entirely—something electric and dangerous that has nothing to do with the lawsuit and everything to do with the way Quinn’s chest is heaving and her eyes are flashing and she’s looking at him like she can’t decide if she wants to hit him or—
She turns away abruptly.
“I need air.”
“It’s a blizzard—”
“I don’t care. I need space.”
She grabs a coat—one of his father’s old ones from the chest—and storms out before Cole can stop her, door slamming behind her hard enough to make the walls shake.
Cole counts to ten.
Then twenty.
Then puts on his own coat and follows her out into the storm because letting Quinn Fitzgerald freeze to death due to anger would definitely complicate the lawsuit.
He finds her standing in the snow that’s past her knees, face turned up to the sky, breathing hard like she’s trying to calm down.
“Five minutes,” Cole says. “Then you come back inside before you get hypothermia.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re going to be a Quinn-sicle if you don’t—”
“Did you just make a popsicle pun?”
“It’s a blizzard. I’m allowed puns.”
She almost smiles. Almost.
“I’m sorry,” Quinn says, still not looking at him. “For assuming you don’t read. For being condescending. For—all of it.”
Cole wasn’t expecting an apology.
Doesn’t quite know what to do with it.
“I’m sorry too. For being an asshole about Seattle and calling you elitist.”
“I mean, I am pretty elitist about coffee.”
“That’s fair. Seattle has good coffee.”
“Best in the country.”
“I’m not conceding that point.”
This time she does smile, and Cole feels it like a punch to the chest.
“We can’t keep fighting like this,” Quinn says. “We’re stuck together for days. Maybe a week. If we keep arguing about the lawsuit, we’re going to kill each other.”
“Agreed.”
“So we need a truce.”
“What kind of truce?”
“The kind where we pretend the lawsuit doesn’t exist. Where we’re just two people trapped in a cabin trying to survive a storm.” She finally looks at him, snow catching in her hair. “Can we do that?”
Cole knows this is dangerous.
Knows that separating Quinn the lawyer from Quinn the woman is asking for trouble.
But standing in the snow with her looking at him like maybe he’s not entirely the enemy, Cole thinks maybe danger is worth it.
“Okay,” he says. “Truce. No lawsuit talk. No arguing about environmental policy or property rights or anything that makes us want to strangle each other.”
“Deal.”
They shake on it—formal and ridiculous standing in knee-deep snow during a blizzard—and Cole tries not to notice how small her hand feels in his or how she doesn’t let go immediately.
“We should go back inside,” Quinn says, but she’s still holding his hand.
“Yeah. We should.”
Neither of them moves.
The snow is falling around them, the wind is screaming, and Cole Hartford—who has never made an impulsive decision in his life—has the sudden overwhelming urge to kiss the infuriating Seattle lawyer who’s trying to destroy his business.
He doesn’t.
But the wanting is enough to make him let go of her hand and step back, breaking whatever spell the storm was weaving.
“Inside,” he says roughly. “Before we freeze.”
Quinn nods and follows him back to the cabin, and Cole thinks that maybe hypothermia would be simpler than whatever the hell is happening between them.
The rest of the day is awkward in a different way.
They establish a routine—Cole maintains the fire and handles the heavy work, Quinn organizes supplies and tries to make the space more livable.
They play cards to pass time.
Read books.
Carefully avoid touching or talking about anything meaningful.
By evening, the tension has shifted from hostile to something Cole doesn’t have a name for but absolutely recognizes as problematic.
They make dinner together—canned soup and crackers, nothing fancy—and Cole catches himself watching Quinn move around the tiny kitchen space like she belongs there.
That night, the pillow wall gets rebuilt.
But Cole lies awake listening to Quinn breathe on the other side, and he knows.
Knows this truce is temporary.
Knows the boundaries are going to break.
Knows that being trapped with Quinn Fitzgerald is the most dangerous situation he’s been in, and it has nothing to do with the storm.
Everything to do with the way she looks at him when she thinks he’s not watching.
The way she almost smiled today.
The way his hand felt holding hers in the snow.
Three more days minimum.
Maybe a week.
This is going to be a problem.
A big, complicated, lawsuit-destroying problem.
And Cole can’t bring himself to care as much as he should.
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