“Are you serious?” I finally manage to blink. Cricket’s giant smile is the only thing keeping me from asking her if she had a bad trip she didn’t tell me about.

Her glow fades at my shocked tone. “See? This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew if you knew that I was marrying Lincoln Riscoff’s best friend, you’d never come home.”

I jerk back in my seat like I just got hit with a wrecking ball. First, because she spoke the name that is not to be spoken, and second, because I didn’t know they were friends.

“What?” The word comes out between a cough and a squeak.

“Whit, please. Do not freak out. It’s not like Lincoln is the best man or something. I would never put you in that position. He’s way too busy for that, anyway.”

I don’t know what to say to her. Lincoln Riscoff is the one person I plan to avoid for the rest of my time on planet earth, and definitely for as long as I’m in Gable. Which, if the Riscoffs have anything to say about it, may not be long.

“So,” Cricket says, glossing over the information bomb she just dropped on me. “Where do you want to go first? Home, or Cocko Taco for the Taco Tuesday special? Be warned, Mom won’t be out of work yet, and Karma is definitely home because unless she’s doing something with her girls, she never steps away from her freaking computer and reality TV.”

Blood is blood, but if Cricket, the most loving and forgiving person I’ve ever met, still can’t handle her sister’s attitude, I’m in no hurry to see my other cousin.

“Taco Tuesday it is.”

Cricket nods and fires up the van. “That’s my girl.”

I’m not sure if she’s talking about me or the van, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s swinging out of the parking lot and narrowly misses a little red Audi convertible. The blonde in the Audi lays on the horn and flips up her finger before flooring it and taking off at a speed the van has no prayer of reaching.

“Whore,” Cricket says under her breath.

“Who was that?”

The rear end of the Audi disappears as it careens around a corner, its tires almost clipping a curb. At this point, I’m not sure who’s the worse driver, her or my cousin.

Cricket shoots me a sideways glance. “You don’t want to know.”

My stomach, which is already knotted into a ball, twists tighter in anticipation.

“Why?”

My cousin’s gaze slides back to the road. “That’s Maren Higgins. She’s . . . well, let’s just say you don’t want to talk about it—and neither do I—because we both have a reason to run her over on purpose. I like to refer to her as Cuntcake McWhoreson because it makes me feel better about myself and life in general.”

“What did she do to you?” I don’t even want to entertain the thought of why I might have a reason to run her over. “Because you know I’ll still cut a bitch.”