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“Let’s start with the vendor layout,” Hudson says. “I moved the barbecue tent closer to the main ring to boost sales. Tanner, your notes?”

He wants a fight, and I’m just angry enough to give him one.

“My note is that putting the barbecue tent that close to the arena is a fire code violation,” I say. “Last time we did that, we had to pay fines out the ass.”

Hudson’s mouth flattens. “We’ll have extra volunteers monitoring⁠—”

“Volunteers? You mean the same group of hungover frat boys who nearly set a Porta Potty ablaze last year?” I let the words hang. The meeting is only three minutes in, and already I want to punch my own laptop. Usually, I live to give my brothers hell just for the fun of it. Today, I’m not in the mood.

Silas laughs, which just makes it worse. “That was epic, though. I still have the video. Hold on, lemme⁠—”

“No,” Hudson and I say in perfect unison.

“Jesus, y’all are tense today,” Silas says, like he’s calling bingo numbers.

“Maybe if we could stick to the plan for once, I wouldn’t have to waste half my week cleaning up everyone’s mess,” I say, voice climbing despite my best efforts.

Hudson raises a brow. “You mean my plan, or your plan?”

I clench my teeth. “The one that doesn’t end with lawsuits.”

Hudson leans forward, filling the screen with his unblinking glare. “Then next time, draft a proposal and submit it like an adult.”

“Maybe if you read my emails⁠—”

“Maybe if you stopped hiding insults inside your spreadsheets⁠—”

“Gentlemen,” Silas drawls, “let’s circle the wagons before the whole damn thing goes up in smoke.”

Hudson and I glare at each other, neither willing to break first. Silas uses the silence to interject, “Why don’t we just split the difference? Barbecue tent goes halfway between the ring and the food court. Fire marshal gets a walk-through. Everybody wins.”

It’s a perfectly reasonable solution, but my brain is done with reason. I’m tired, the headache is back, and for reasons I can’t articulate, the thought of another “compromise” makes me want to set something on fire myself.

“For Christ’s sake, it’s not rocket science!” I yell, slamming my hand on the table. “It’s just barbecue! You pick a spot and move the tent! We do this every year—why are we reinventing the damn wheel?”

Silas’s mouth drops open. Hudson sits stone-faced, eyes hard as cattle prods.

The silence is total. Even the email notifications on my phone have the good sense to stop popping up.

Hudson speaks first, voice flat as a dry creek. “We’ll table vendor placement for now. Tanner, handle whatever you want, just let me know if the fire marshal calls. Silas, you take care of the entertainment schedule.”

Silas gives me a sideways look, lips twitching with either concern or amusement. “You good, bro?”

I realize I’m breathing hard, knuckles white on the edge of the desk. I flex my fingers, willing the tension out. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll send an updated map by noon.”

Hudson nods, then adds, “You’re really hurting, Tanner?”

Duh. Asshole. “No shit, Sherlock,” I growl and hang up before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

I sit there, listening to my own breathing, the rush of blood in my ears. My fingers start drumming on the desk—first fast, then slow, then not at all. Fuck. I need to get my back fixed.

My phone buzzes again. I glance down, fully expecting another digital middle finger from Maggie, but nope. This time it’s Hudson.

Asshole #1

Dr. Ellis. Chiropractic. Book today. Tell him I sent you. 254-332-5555.

I stare at the screen for a solid ten seconds, debating if I should ignore his demand. But I’m fucking desperate. Instead, I dial the number and schedule an appointment for later this afternoon.