"You can be good at it while also accepting some feedback to get better," I argued. "I'm not saying you're a misogynistic piece of shit. I'm saying there's a better way to start a conversation about Brooke and Annette than minimizing them as 'our women.'"
"All right, let's try this again. Annette and Brooke are best friends. That's not about to change. I thought it might be different after we'd moved in together, after we got engaged. Don't know why I thought that," he added, laughing. "I think we have the privilege of taking part in their world. We need to find a way to deal with each other because they wouldn't blink an eye at dropping one or both of us if we ever tried to make them choose."
"That's the straight truth," I replied.
"They've made a family of each other and it's the only family they truly have," he continued. "You and I, we have a number of differences. We don't agree on many things. Hell, half the time I don't think we speak the same language. But it's in our best interest to get this right."
Pressing my fist to my lips, I stared at the sheriff. I didn't relish him being right, if for no reason other than my longstanding disdain for people telling me what to do. Authority figures had been grating on me as far back as my memories went. There was no clean genesis to my anarchist bent; I preferred to command myself, regardless of the outcome.
But Jackson wasn't the real authority figure here. It was Brooke. She was as much of an authority as anyone. I couldn't refuse his peace offering because—for the first time in my life—anarchy wasn't my answer.
"You're right about them making a family," I conceded. "I'm not about to take that away from Brooke."
"And you're not about to let her go," Jackson added. "Or did I misread things over dinner last night?"
Rolling my eyes, I leaned forward, folded my arms on the desktop. "Let's establish some ground rules,friend. Number one, you don't read shit into my relationship and I'll offer you the same courtesy."
Fighting a smile, Jackson said, "I can agree to that."
"Second, you're not the sheriff in social settings. You want to argue about drunks stumbling out of my distillery and raising hell on your streets, you save that for a conversation like this one."
"The badge doesn't come off because I sit down for a meal," he replied.
"You don't have to take the badge off, but I'd prefer if you kept a lid on your law enforcement crusades when we're gathered for a damn dinner party."
"Watch it. Annette spent hours making everything perfect for that party," Jackson snapped.
"And it was perfect," I replied. "I ate the leftovers for breakfast. But you have to know the proper times and places to pull the sheriff card."
He circled his hand, urging me to continue. "What else? This is your opportunity, Harniczek. Get it all out."
"We need to find something to discuss that isn't Nate Fitzsimmons or local law enforcement efforts because that's all we've ever talked about and I'm maxed out. Football, the last book you read, the weather, whatever the hell you want."
He stared at me for a long beat before saying, "I'll give it some thought." He continued staring because it wouldn't be a valuable conversation without slapping me with his power penis.
"Are we done here, sheriff? Or shall we play this game until someone comes looking for us? Nate can entertain himself with citrus fruit and ketchup all afternoon, but I'm sure your absence won't go unnoticed."
I expected him to leave without a word or make an ominous remark about keeping an eye on me, but he asked, "What have you heard about the kids hanging out near the old Walker farmstead?" He rattled off a few names. No surprises in that crew. "Every time one of my deputies swing by, they say the kids are being kids and there's no trouble beyond some minors in possession of alcohol. What do you think?"
It was good to slip back into the comfort of our long-established dynamic of sheriff and barkeep, where I kept a handle on under-the-table affairs in these parts and Jackson was the heavy when needed. We knew and enjoyed these roles and they were far less complicated than the ones we found ourselves in now, as the men in Brooke's and Annette's lives.
"I think it's probably a nonissue," I said. "If it's not one abandoned farm, it's another."
"Isn't that the truth," he replied. "So, how about those Rangers? Think they'll make it to the Stanley Cup?"
"That's enough." I pointed toward the door. "We've covered plenty of ground today, sheriff. We have to save something for tomorrow."
"Right," he agreed, pushing to his feet. "We should ask Annette to recommend some books for us. To keep the conversation going."
"We're not starting a book club, sheriff." I jabbed my finger toward the door again. "Not until I know we have compatible taste in reading material."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brooke
Arbitrage: any strategy that invests for the long-term in one asset and short-term in a related asset.
June
