Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Ambrose

A mbrose woke to the sound of rain on the cabin roof. It took him a moment to realise where he was, and a moment longer than that to realise what day it was. Then he had to check his phone to figure out the time. It was Friday afternoon, and he appeared to have missed most of the day.

He blinked around the cabin. There was no sign of Liam, but there was a large bottle of water and a packet of Panadol on the little bedside table.

Ambrose groaned. He rarely got drunk—not because he had any moral opposition to it, just because he never had the money to splash around—and he hoped he hadn't said or done anything too embarrassing. Like chucked his guts up all over the place or something. That might work well to have the Connellys hate him, but Ambrose didn't want them to hate him. He wanted them to think he wasn't right for Liam, but not to hate him. It was a line he'd never thought about before, and it was stupid, probably. What did it matter what they thought of him? It wasn't like they'd invite him back once he and Liam ‘broke up'.

Except an amicable breakup wouldn't work, would it? Because Ambrose had been hired to make it look like he'd broken Liam's heart to give Liam an excuse for continued singlehood, which meant that, at some point during this weekend, he was going to have to do something truly awful.

The idea that these people would spit his name with narrowed eyes for years to come made his stomach turn—although that could have been all the wine. Except when he sat up carefully, although he felt sluggish and muzzy-headed, he didn't feel hungover. Either all that stuff he vaguely remembered Grandad Billy saying about the quality of Connelly Estate wines was true, or he was still tipsy. When he walked into the wall on his way to the toilet, he figured it was the second thing.

When he came out of the toilet, he spotted a note sitting on top of the opened gift basket from last night.

Come up to the house when you're awake—Liam

And while a part of Ambrose really just wanted to go back to bed and sleep, he was technically working. And besides that, he was hungry, and a little tired of cheese and crackers. Maybe there'd be a hot meal available at the house, or at least a sandwich or something.

The rain was still falling steadily as Ambrose made his way up to the house, an umbrella clutched in his hand. It was late afternoon, and the day was grey and bleak, but it was still beautiful here, all rolling green hills in the distance and the fresh smell of rain in the air. Ambrose could see why the area was so popular for tourists and weekend escapees from Sydney's rat race.

John Phillip met him halfway to the house and fell into step beside him. Ambrose had vague memories of sitting next to the dog on the floor in the tasting shed and wondered once again exactly what he'd said and done, but he was still drunk enough that he couldn't muster up a decent level of concern. If he'd been an utter arse, someone would tell him soon enough. His clothes didn't smell of sick and his mouth didn't taste like cat litter, so he'd probably avoided throwing up at least.

He reached over and scratched the dog's head without thinking as they approached the house, and Grandad Billy's voice sailed across the yard. "There, I knew you'd like dogs if you met the right one! See, Fi, I told you the lad had good in him!"

Shit. He'd forgotten that he'd said he didn't like dogs. He pulled his hand back, but it was too late. John Phillip had sensed weakness. He shoved his skull under Ambrose's palm persistently, making a warbling sound until Ambrose gave in and patted him some more. It was only when they reached the porch that John Phillip loped up the stairs to shove his head under Grandad's hand instead, still making that noise.

"Ah, that's his happy sound," Fi said, giving Ambrose a bright smile. "You've made a friend." Which was the polar opposite of what Ambrose was meant to be doing, but he found he couldn't care too much right now, not when Fi looked so happy. Even the dog's mouth was stretched wide in what was definitely a smile.

Liam appeared in the doorway, and he looked so genuinely pleased to see Ambrose that it made something inside him ache, because if it wasn't for this stupid charade of theirs, maybe they could have been genuine friends. "How are you feeling?" Liam asked, still grinning. "Grandad and I practically had to pour you into bed."

Ambrose shook out the umbrella before stepping onto the porch, wobbling slightly, and ran a hand through his hair. "I think I'm still a bit drunk," he admitted. At least that might get him back in the bad books, where he was meant to be.

But Liam just laughed. "Yeah, I thought you might be. The 2012 shiraz is a killer on its own, let alone Grandad's special edition port. Come on, let's get you something to eat."

Ambrose wondered briefly if Liam was like his mother and showed affection one meal at a time. Did this mean he liked Ambrose after all? But then he pushed the thought away, dismissing it as wishful thinking brought on by wine, and summoned up a smile. "I'm starving. What have we got?"

"Lasagne," Liam said. "It's the best thing after you've been drinking. Mum always keeps some in the freezer just in case."

And fuck, suddenly Ambrose couldn't think of anything better than a giant slab of pasta and sauce and meat and cheese. "Lead the way," he said, and followed Liam inside. He even managed it without walking into the doorframe this time.

"That was bloody awesome," Ambrose said, scraping his fork across the bottom of his plate in a way that he hoped was obnoxious. It was certainly annoying the fuck out of him.

Fi beamed and whisked the plate away, only to bring it back with another slice of lasagne. The cheese was tinged with the pink of tangy tomato sauce where they'd swirled together, the lasagne was just slightly crispy around the edges, and it was at least as good as some of the restaurant food Ambrose had endured on his ‘dates'.

As he ate, an arc of headlights hit the dining room window, cutting through the dreary day outside.

"Oh!" Fi exclaimed. "They're here!"

She set the tray of lasagne down and hurried towards the front door. Will followed her, wiping his fingers on a cloth napkin.

"If Neve asks me to be her bridesmaid, I'm telling her I'm getting my head shaved and wearing my purple Docs," Riley announced.

Bridget snorted. "Like Neve would care. You'll have to think outside the box if you want to turn her into a Bridezilla."

Riley laughed, but she glanced at Ambrose, and Ambrose felt a sudden jolt of panic. Had Riley guessed he was the guy to ask for professional tips on how to be a dick? No, of course not. He was just getting paranoid.

"Ambrose, we have to do this thing for English," Riley said. "Like this drama thing?"

Ambrose relaxed. "What sort of thing?"

"Shakespeare," Riley said, wrinkling her nose. "But we have to make it modern and relevant ." Complete with air quotes. "Why is that the go-to assignment of every English teacher ever?"

"Because the curriculum forces them to teach it," Ambrose said, "even though their students would rather rip their own fingernails out. So they try to make it sound cool, and it ends up as cringey as those lame Christian rappers."

"You get it," Riley said, and jabbed a fork in his direction. She looked around the table. "Ambrose gets it."

" Reading Shakespeare is like watching paint dry," Ambrose said. "But watching it be performed, like it was meant to be? It's fucking killer. Like, dude knew how to write, you know? But it doesn't translate to the page, and it sure as shit doesn't translate to silent reading material."

"Done some of the Bard, have you?" asked Grandad Billy from where he was leaning against the door. "Give us a bit, then."

Ambrose swallowed around his mouthful of lasagne. "What?"

"A bit of a turn. Show us if you've inherited your mother's talent. Lord, that woman was a delight to watch. A true star. "

Every single bit of Shakespeare Ambrose had ever learned chose that moment to leave his head, except that line from the poem Venus and Adonis that was definitely about oral.

Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry

Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

"Um," he said. Whole fucking monologues out there, and all he could think of was that line. He blamed the distraction of Liam sitting across the table from him with sauce-stained lips. And possibly the wine.

"Maybe later," Liam said, rescuing him.

"Performance anxiety?" Grandad asked with a wink. Ambrose wasn't sure how to answer that, but he was saved by Liam's parents bustling through the door, followed by Neve.

"Marcus will be right here. He's getting the bags," she announced, even though nobody had asked. "God, the traffic was terrible. I think there was an accident on the highway. I hope everyone was okay." Her face lit up. "Ambrose! It's great to see you again! You look a bit peaky. Did Grandad give you the tour already?"

Ambrose laughed. "Yeah. I'm still recovering."

"I was out of action for two days," Orhan said, shifting Balian from Bridget's lap onto his.

"Ah well, give it time," Grandad said, laughing. "We haven't tackled the whites yet."

Ambrose's stomach rumbled in warning, and it had nothing to do with the lasagne.

"Grandad," Liam said, and rolled his eyes. "Go easy."

"Fine. I suppose I can wait till tomorrow, and Marcus can join us." Grandad heaved a heavy sigh, sounding for all the world like all the joy had been sucked from his life. John Phillip warbled his agreement and leaned on Grandad's leg .

Ambrose was glad that at least there was another newbie here now who could take some of the heat off him. He looked up as Neve's fiancé, Marcus, stepped into the room. He was tall and blond, as handsome as a David Jones menswear model, and he was brushing droplets of water off the shoulders of his linen shirt as he entered the room. He gave everyone a blinding Colgate smile, and Ambrose felt his world shift a little as a flash of memory came to him.

It had only been last week. The night before his date with Kelly, Ambrose had been on a date with Lucy at some swanky place at Circular Quay. And Marcus had been sitting at a nearby table with a girl—a girl who definitely hadn't been Neve, because she'd been as blonde as Neve was dark. Ambrose remembered it vividly, because Marcus had been an absolute nightmare, first complaining that his al dente pasta wasn't truly al dente, then banging his fist on the table and demanding to see the chef. Ambrose had found it unbelievable that someone could be a bigger arsehole than him when they weren't even getting paid for it.

"It's so lovely to meet you at last, Marcus," Fi said, taking him by the arm, and running through the introductions. "This is everyone. Grandad Billy, and you just met Will. This is Bridget, our oldest, and her husband, Orhan. And their little one, Balian. And our son, Liam, and our youngest, Riley. And Liam's boyfriend, Ambrose."

"How long have you guys been dating?" Ambrose blurted out, and every face turned to him. "Just, um, you know, trying to get a ballpark figure for when Liam will pop the question."

Marcus laughed. "Oh, it's been pretty whirlwind, right, Neve?"

"Yeah," Neve said. "We met eight months ago, didn't we? At Sally's party."

Ambrose's heart fell .

"Pull up a seat," Grandad Billy said. "I'll pour you a drink."

Marcus smiled again and plopped himself in a kitchen chair, legs spread wide. "I'll have one of whatever you're offering," he said. "The bigger the better."

"That's what she said." The words slipped out of Ambrose's mouth on autopilot.

Marcus looked startled, but Grandad Billy laughed loudly.

The Connelly inquisition began, and Ambrose hated to admit it, but Marcus weathered it a lot more smoothly than he had. He didn't seem bothered by the volume, or the sheer number of questions being peppered at him from all different directions. He was thirty-one. He was an investment banker. He'd never been married before and had no kids. His family was all in Melbourne. He didn't get as much time off as he would have liked—or Neve would have liked—but he loved his job. His dream was to work in Hong Kong for a few years, but he definitely wanted to raise his future kids in Sydney.

Ambrose stabbed his fork into his lasagne and rolled his eyes at Mr. Perfect. Then he wondered if anyone had seen him do it and glanced around the table. Grandad Billy caught his gaze and gave him a nod. For a moment it felt like they were allies, united in their ‘Who does this fuckhead think he is?' stance, but then Ambrose remembered that Marcus wasn't the only liar at the table, and he felt a rush of guilt.

And, he reminded himself, he didn't know that Marcus was a liar. Maybe he was super affectionate with his female friends. Maybe it had been his sister. It would explain the terrifyingly Stepford similarities between him and his dinner partner. They'd been like Malibu Ken and Barbie, fresh out of the box, complete with matching smiles and spray tans. Then again, Ambrose had a sister, and he couldn't remember ever sliding his hand down her arse when she got up from the table to use the bathroom. But it was possible he'd misinterpreted that. Maybe it hadn't been her arse, but her lower back, or maybe he'd been brushing lint off her skirt, and Ambrose had only assumed they were sleeping together when it had all been perfectly innocent. After all, who knew better than Ambrose that first impressions could be entirely mistaken?

Still, it ate at him, enough that when Grandad Billy waggled a wine bottle at him in query, he held his glass out without thinking twice. Maybe another drink or two would quiet his brain, stop him from saying something he shouldn't about Marcus and his mystery blonde.

He focussed instead on listening to the conversations going on around him, trying to keep track of all the different threads as ten different people dipped in and out of them at will. In the end, he just paid attention to Grandad, because that was easiest. Currently, it looked for all the world like Grandad was doing his best not to get into an argument with Marcus over closing down for renovations.

"I mean, how much are you missing out on not being open this weekend?" Marcus asked. "The whole area is crawling with tourists right now, and that's money that's not coming your way."

Grandad Billy narrowed his eyes and drew a deep breath for what Ambrose hoped would be a scathing reply.

"We decided it was less of a liability to close down for construction," Will put in smoothly. "And sure, we miss out on a big weekend now, but we're ahead of schedule, and we'll be open to tourists again in time for summer, which is our peak season here in the Valley."

Ambrose was distracted when Liam slid a plate of olives in front of him.

"Chilli and garlic," he said .

"Pretty sure they're olives, actually."

Liam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he did it. "I meant they're stuffed with chilli and garlic."

Ambrose took one and popped it in his mouth. "And now I'm stuffed with chilli and garlic." He liked the way that Liam's eyes shone when he laughed. "Seriously though, don't let me eat anything else. I'm too full already."

"But your dinner!" Fi exclaimed, head whipping round like a meerkat's at the mention of someone refusing food.

Ambrose blinked. "The lasagne wasn't dinner?"

Fi flapped the hand not holding Balian on her lap at him. "There's more to come. That was just the starter, to put a lining on your stomach."

Liam grinned and murmured, "Resistance is futile."

"I'd love some more lasagne, Fi," Marcus said, holding his plate out, and everything about the way he did it grated on Ambrose's nerves.

Apparently he wasn't the only one. "Have they not heard of ‘please' and ‘thank you' where you're from, city boy?" Grandad Billy asked loudly, fixing Marcus with a hard stare.

Marcus's smile faltered just for a second, but then Liam's mum was on her feet, taking the plate. "Now, Billy, there's no need for formality here. Marcus is almost family."

Billy scowled and muttered something into his glass, and even though he couldn't hear what it was, Ambrose was right there with him.

Liam stood and extended his arms toward his mum. "I'll take Balian," he offered, and Fi gave a grateful smile and slid the baby into his waiting arms.

"You're a good boy, Liam," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. "Ambrose is very lucky to have you." Her eyes flicked to Ambrose, and he knew what she was thinking—that Ambrose wasn't nearly good enough for her boy. Ambrose wished he could say she was wrong.

He popped another olive in his mouth, and Liam grinned. "What happened to not eating any more?" he teased.

"They're right there. It was instinctive," Ambrose protested.

Grandad got a twinkle in his eye and filled Ambrose's glass again, which had somehow become empty without him noticing. "That's the boy. Take what's put in front of you."

"That's my philosophy," Marcus agreed. "Take what you can get, when you can get it." His laugh was a little too loud, and Ambrose thought again of the blonde. He took a swig of wine in an effort to keep himself from saying something, and Grandad topped his glass up again. Ambrose briefly wondered if this was what it was like for the parents of his bad dates and felt a pang of guilt.

Then Marcus opened his mouth and said, with a narrow look at Ambrose, "So, Liam and Ambrose, how long have you guys been dating?"

"It's very new," Liam said, before Ambrose could answer. "We've only known each other a few weeks."

"A few weeks," Marcus repeated slowly, and curled his mouth into a smug grin, and Ambrose knew that he wasn't the only one that remembered they'd seen each other in the restaurant only last week. Marcus either thought he had dirt on Ambrose now or, even worse, that they were both on the same page.

Ambrose shot Marcus a look and picked up his glass of wine.

Fuck this.

There was no way he could handle this dinner sober. And hey, he was here to be an arsehole, right? Getting hammered at family dinner fitted in perfectly with his job description.