“Wow. That sounds crazy.”

Cricket tilts her head toward me. “The only thing that’s crazy is Lincoln—about you.”

“We’re not talking about him tonight. This is about your mama.”

“Damn right it is,” Jackie says as she spoons up a bite of crème brûlée and pops a bite in her mouth. “I’m tasting every single one of these, and I don’t give a shit if you judge me.”

Cricket points at the strawberry tart. “As long as you save a bite of that one for me, I don’t care. But first,” she grabs the neck of a champagne bottle and lifts it from the ice, “we’re cracking this baby open.”

Being Cricket, she does the only thing I would expect from her, which is shake it up.

“Cri—”

But it’s too late. The cork goes flying, and she sprays it over the edge of the balcony. I slap a hand over my mouth to quiet my scream so we don’t attract Karma’s bitchiness again.

Spray blows back on all three of us, and Jackie gasps. “Good Lord, girl. That’s freezing.”

Cricket drinks straight from the bottle. “But it tastes divine.”

I catch a glimpse of the label. “It’s like a grand a bottle, so it should.”

Cricket chokes and smacks the bottle on the marble table. “Holy shit. We’re fancy as fuck tonight.”

I grab the champagne and fill our flutes. When I finish, I lift my glass in the air. “To Aunt Jackie. The hardest-working woman I know. The best role model. The best aunt.”

“The best mom,” Cricket interjects.

I nod. “And the best woman I’ve ever met. Cheers to you.”

Tears shimmer in Jackie’s eyes. “I love you girls so much.” She holds out her arms, and Cricket and I both come toward her to be wrapped in a tight hug.

For the first time since I’ve been back in Gable, I know with one hundred percent certainty that I can’t leave like I did before and not see my family for years at a time.

Moments like this are too precious.

Cricket passes out on the couch after a call to Hunter telling him she doesn’t need a ride. I slip out of Jackie’s suite and tiptoe down the hall, a little tipsy.

As I wobble on my bare feet, I amend that thought. A lot tipsy.

When I reach the doorway to the pantry, a room filled with snacks and drinks for the use of guests, I pause. Gatorade is probably the only thing that’s going to help me avoid a champagne hangover tomorrow.

I slip inside and fumble around in the dark until I find the flavor I want in the glass-fronted cooler. With the bottle clutched to my chest, I move toward the door.

That’s when I hear footsteps coming down the marble hallway.

Shit.

The last thing I want is to run into another human being right now. I flatten my back against the wall and turn my head sideways so I can still see out the door.