We don't mention the wedding or Roman's name again...even when August is finally here, the wedding's a week away, and it's time for rehearsal dinner.

I'm leaning toward the dressing table's mirror in our bedroom, trying to put on large, sparkling earrings. My make up is done and my hair is tied up in a bun. I've settled for a simple, powder-green dress—no cleavage or anything too revealing. I'm not even wearing heels, I have flats on. I don't want any unnecessary attention tonight.

Frankly, I don't want to go. But I've got to put Nate's mind at ease. Okay, maybe I have to put my mind at ease too—prove to myself that Roman is ancient history. There's no need for my hands to be shaky, or my legs to feel like jelly. Because it's true...

Fine. Roman isn't ancient, but he is history. All I need to do to prove it is to get in the car, enter the hotel and sit next to Nate until the end of dinner. Nothing's going to happen.

I shove my phone into a tiny bag and step out of the bedroom. The mechanic voice of a news anchor reaches the hallway. Smile, Abby. Smile and walk. Now, keep walking and enter the living room.

There he is. My handsome man is stunning! He looks extra hot in an off-white, linen suit. He is sitting on the couch...pouring whiskey into a glass from a nearly empty bottle. My smile immediately disappears.

"Very mature, Nate."

He chuckles and raises his glass toward the door. Can he even see where I am? Because I'm nowhere near where he's aiming at. His cheeks are pink, tie is loose, shirt's top buttons are undone and his hair is a wet, sticky mess!

I turn off the TV and fold my arms. "How are you planning to drive?"

"I'm not driving. You are," he replies, downing his drink in one go. His face sours, but then he smiles again and starts pouring another drink. "Couldn't go without you, babe."

Great. I'm dealing with a man-child. "I thought we were a team. I wish you trusted me a little."

Nate stops raising the glass to his lips. His gaze lingers on the amber liquid waving in front of him. He pauses, pursing his plump lips as if he's tasting my words. His face sours. Then letting out a shaky sigh, he leaves his drink back on the coffee table and scratches his forehead.

Do I need to feel sorry for him? Because I don't! Not even when he tries to push himself up to stand, and falls back on the couch.

He is unbelievable. Irresponsible. Stupid!

I march around the coffee table, grab Nate's hand and pull him up. Smokey whiskey reeks out of his pores as if he's bathed in it. How is he going to make it through the night when he can't even stand on his own?

Swallowing my harsh words, I slip under his arm and walk him to the entrance. Nate leans against the wall to find his balance while I open the door.

"Sorry, Abbs," he mumbles, rubbing his cheek.

"It's fine," I snap. "Do you still want to go?"

He nods, reaching out for support.

Once we're in the elevator, Nate rests his forehead against the mirror. His breath fogs around his reflection. Did he fall he asleep?

He's groaning, so probably not...

I turn my gaze at the descending digital numbers on the panel.

Truth is, I can't bear to look at him. If I do, I'll either scream at his stupid face, start laughing, or cry. There's no in between. It aches my heart, though, to see him this way. He deserves to be in the cover of his own magazine in that suit and light blue shirt. I love how his stripy tie matches my dress and reflects the lighter shades of green in his eyes. He could be center of attention tonight as the charming best man and be my rock... But it seems like everybody's going to remember him as the groom's drunk brother—including me.

Our footsteps echo in the parking lot. His convertible lights up when I unlock it. I adjust the mirrors and the seat, then start the engine.

This is the first time I'm driving Nate's car. My hands are sweating around the steering wheel. I slide forward in my seat as the garage doors fold open. Then we slip into the traffic.

Next to me, Nate rests his temple against the window. His head's bouncing off every time I push the brakes, but he doesn't seem to mind the impact as he blinks, straightens up, and reclaims his position...which only makes me want to push the brakes harder! Good thing, the Plaza is not too far now. I see it rising in the distance.

And hell, I'm not worrying about Roman anymore!

Nate's phone starts to ring. He fishes it out of his pocket with a sigh, then shrugs when it falls silent.

I stop at the red light and turn to him. Something is buzzing aggressively. "Is it my phone?" I ask, eyeing the silver bag on Nate's lap.

"Yeah. Been going off since we left," he mumbles.

Seriously? I could slap his fucking face right now. Cursing under my breath, I grab my bag and unzip it. "It's Daniel." I answer the call and put him on speaker. "What's up, Dan?"

"Abby? You there?" Somebody's yelling in the background.

Fuck. My heart jumps to my throat. "What happened?"

"Olga. We're—"

"Fuuuuucccckkkk!" Olga screams. "Tell her to get her ass here! Now!"

"Olga?" My hands turn ice-cold. I look ahead to pull over, but I can't switch lanes before the next light in this traffic jam. "What's going on?"

"She's in labor," Daniel squeaks. "I can't... Abby, I can't do it."

"Coward!" Olga screams. "Out! Get the fuck out!"

"I feel...sick. I'm gonna...pass out." Daniel pants.

"Where are you? Did you get her to the hospital?" I ask.

"Yeah. But... it's coming, Abby. I think I touched... something hard, you know, down there. Fuck. I think I touched its head—" Daniel's voice trails off with a loud thud.

"It wasn't a head it was my ass!" Olga screams. "Nurse! Abby, get here! I can't do this alone... You hear me? Abby!"

I finally pull over when a car lets me pass. The Plaza is only a block away. I turn to Nate. His eyes are wide open as if he's suddenly woken up. He rubs his face, then he rubs it again.

"Nate?" I ask, but he shakes his head. Fuck... I tighten my grasp on the wheel. Am I going to have to choose between Nate and Olga?

The car windows tremble with Olga's painful howl. "Nurse... Please. No more ice chips. Epidural... I changed my mind! Give me the epidural!"

Nate clings onto the console for dear life. "Go," he gasps out.

I reach for his hand. "I can't leave you like this. I promised you—"

"Go, Abby," Nate says firmly, taking in a deep breath. "I'll be alright. Take the car. I'll come to the hospital when the dinner's over."

"You sure?"

"Yes! I'm sure!" Olga cries. "Give me the fucking epidural!"

Nate hops out of the car. "Text me," he says, then shuts the door and taps on the window.

Olga's sobs fill the silence. I can hear a nurse speaking in the background.

"On my way," I say, and kick the gas. The engine roars as I hurl into the traffic. The car behind me honks, but I don't care. I got make it to the hospital.

It sounds like Olga's in the middle of an exorcism at the other end of the line.

Fuck... I wipe the sweat off my forehead and focus on the road. I'm never having babies. Never!