her mouth opens, but only small whimpers come out. And that’s just unacceptable.

“Come on, baby, you can do better than that.”

I give each pointy peak a good, long tug. And she screams, “Drew . . . Drew . . . yes . . .”

So much f**king better.

I move my hands to her knees and hold on for leverage. Pulling her toward me as I push forward. Skin slapping skin. “God . . . Kate . . .”

I’m not going to be able to hold out much longer. At this rate I really didn’t expect to. My chin drops to my chest and I reach down and grab her ass. Lifting her up—plunging deeper. Moving faster.

Kate’s legs tighten on me and I know she’s close too. And she’s moaning . . . chanting . . . it’s a beautiful thing. And then she goes rigid under me. Clenching around me. Taking me down with her.

I grip her waist, holding her close as we come together.

Later, when our breaths finally return to normal, I collapse on the bed next to her. “God damn. That never gets old.”

She laughs. “Yeah. I needed that.”

Then she bites her bottom lip and looks at me sideways. Bashfully.

“Want to do it again?”

Like she really needs to ask.

A few hours later, I wake up from my sex-induced coma to the sound of Kate’s voice.

“Ugh . . . goddamn pizza. Damn whoever invented it.”

I rub the sleep from my eyes and glance out the window. It’s still dark outside, just a couple hours after midnight. Kate is pacing across the room, rubbing her belly. Breathing hard.

“Kate? What’s going on?”

She stops in her tracks and looks my way. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” She moans softly. “Just indigestion.”

Just indigestion?

Famous last words.

And the next thing you know, Uncle Morty’s lying on a slab in the morgue from the massive heart attack he never knew he was having. Not on my watch, buddy.

In a flash, I’m out of bed—sweatpants on. I stand next to Kate, my hand on her shoulder.

“Should we call the doctor?”

“What? No . . . no, I’m sure it’s just . . . ugh . . .” She bends over, holding her midsection. “Oh . . . ow . . .”

And a gush of water bursts from between her legs. Like ten gallons’ worth.

The two of us just stand there. Stupidly. Watching as droplets fall from the edge of her nightgown onto the rug. And then, like a snake slithering in the grass, reality winds its way through our brains.

“Oh. My. God.”

“holy shit.”

Remember that water balloon I mentioned?

Yep—that sucker just popped.

Hee hee.

Whoo whoo.

Hee hee.

Whoo whoo.

When I was sixteen, my school’s basketball team was in a dead heat for the State Championship. During the final game we were down by one, with three seconds left on the clock. Guess who they passed the ball to? Who sank the winning three-pointer?

Yep—that would be me. Because even back then, I was a rock.

Steady on the draw. I don’t get stressed. Fear? Panic? They’re for losers.

And I’m no loser.

So why are my hands shaking like an un-medicated Parkinson’s patient?

Anyone ever tell you, you ask too many frigging questions?

My knuckles are white, wrapped in a death grip around the steering wheel.

Kate is in the passenger seat—with a towel under her ass— implementing every breathing technique those wacked-out, hippie Lamaze instructors told us about.

Hee hee.

Whoo whoo.

Hee hee.

Whoo.

Then, mid-whoo, she screams. “Oh, no!”

I almost slam the car into a goddamn telephone pole. “What! What’s wrong?”

“I forgot the sour apple lollipops!”

“The what?”

her voice is heavy with disappointment. “The sour apple lollipops. Alexandra said they were the only thing that quenched her thirst when she was in labor with Mackenzie. I was going to pick some up this afternoon, but I forgot. Can we stop and get some?”

Okay. It seems that Kate’s common sense has gone bye-bye— so it’s up to me to be the voice of reason. Which is pretty frigging frightening, considering I’m hanging on by a thread over here.

“No, we can’t f**king stop and get some! Are you out of your mind?”

Kate’s big brown eyes immediately fill with tears. And I feel like the world’s biggest dick.

“Please, Drew? I just want everything to be perfect . . . and what if I want a lollipop during the delivery, and you go to get me one, and then I have the baby while you’re gone? You’ll miss it.”

Tears course down her cheeks like two little tributaries. “I couldn’t bear it if you missed it.”

Please don’t let it be a girl. For God’s sake, please don’t let it be a girl. All this time, I’ve been praying for a healthy baby without specifying a sex.

Until now.

Because if I have a daughter, and her tears cut me off at the knees like Kate’s do? I’m totally f**king screwed.

“Okay, Kate. It’s all right, baby. Don’t cry—I’ll stop.”

She sniffles. And smiles. “Thank you.”

I jerk the wheel to the right, make an illegal U-turn, and pull onto the curb in front of a 7-Eleven. Then, faster than a pit stop at the Indy 500, I’m back on the road, with the coveted sour apple lollipops rolling around in the backseat.