Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Liam

" Y ou have pretty eyes," Ambrose mumbled, one arm wrapped around Liam's shoulders. He expelled a warm, shiraz-tinged breath against the side of his neck. "You're pretty."

"Uh-huh. Let's get you to bed." Guiding Ambrose back to the cabin was turning out to be more difficult than he'd anticipated. Liam almost wished he'd taken Orhan up on his offer to help, but Ambrose had flapped his hands at them and protested that he was fine to walk, he wasn't a child . He'd had that gleam in his eye that meant he'd hit the stage of drunkenness where he was either going to get emotional or belligerent. Liam hadn't been willing to risk either one, so now here they were, weaving towards the cabins in the cool night air.

A hand patted his face. "Why, though?" Ambrose asked almost plaintively.

"Why what?"

"Why're you alone? You're nice. And good looking." A hand petted at Liam's chest clumsily. "Nice body. Probably got a nice dick too."

Liam felt warmth flood his face and tried not to focus on the fact that Ambrose had been thinking about his dick. He was drunk, and probably wouldn't even remember having this conversation. "Watch the puddle," he warned, and steered Ambrose around the pooled water on the path.

"Thanks. Wet shoes. Ew." Ambrose scrunched his face up in distaste. "See? Nice guy. So, why're you single?" he asked again.

Liam navigated Ambrose up the single porch step and leaned him against the front door of the cabin, pulling the key out and fumbling it into the lock. "I'll tell you when we get inside," he said. Wasn't there something about how walking through a doorway reset your brain? Maybe once they stepped inside Ambrose would forget all about it.

Liam struggled for a second with the key before getting it to turn and made a note to put a squirt of WD-40 into the keyhole in the morning.

Ambrose swayed against the wall, staring dreamily at Liam. "You have nice hair, too."

"Thanks," Liam muttered. "You're, um… You also have nice hair."

He pushed the door open and flicked the light on.

"I'm sleepy," Ambrose said, shuffling through behind him and wrapping his arms around him like a koala. "I drank a lot of wine. Again ."

"Yeah," Liam agreed. As much as he liked warm, loose-cuddle-koala Ambrose, there was no way this could end well. "So okay, how about you lie down and go to sleep?"

"Down is a long way down," Ambrose said, pushing out his bottom lip.

"It's really not that far," Liam assured him. "I'll help you."

"You're so nice ." Ambrose's eyes widened. "Wait! You promised to tell me why you're all sad and alone! "

So much for the door theory. Apparently it didn't work on drunks.

"Okay," Liam said with a sigh. "But there's not much to tell." He furrowed his brow. "Also, I'm not sad and alone. I'm just alone."

"But that's so sad," Ambrose whispered, his eyes as big as John Phillip's when there was bacon in play. "You need a good person!"

Liam wondered briefly if Ambrose had somehow become possessed by the spirit of his mother. "I really don't, though. I mean, it would be nice, I guess, but I don't need it. I'm only twenty-three. I've got plenty of time, right? Or is there something my mum's not telling me? Have I been diagnosed with a terminal illness, and everybody knows but me? Is there a family curse that I won't live past twenty-five? Like, why do I need to have a boyfriend?"

Ambrose's eyes got even wider. "Your sad story is a family curse ?"

"No!" Liam couldn't help laughing. "My sad story is a dickhead of an ex-boyfriend called Jonah, who my family all thought was great , by the way, who decided to fuck another guy in our bed and didn't expect me to come home so early."

"Ooof," Ambrose said, and his eyes narrowed. "Want me to kill him for you?"

"Oh, is that an extra service you offer? Fake boyfriend and bonus hitman?"

"I like to think I would be very good at killing people," Ambrose said, swaying a little on his feet. "But also, I threw up a bit last time I had to touch one of those soggy blood mattress things that come in supermarket steaks." He gazed at a spot over Liam's left ear for a second before coming back to himself. "Why didn't Grandad kill him? He'd be a great hitman. "

"Because I didn't tell them," Liam said. "I felt stupid for trusting him, and I couldn't take Mum being sympathetic and telling me I'm too trusting. That would have made it worse."

"But it's not your fault!" Ambrose exclaimed hotly, and Liam felt a rush of affection for him because he was so indignant on his behalf. It was probably mostly fuelled by the wine, but it still felt nice.

"I know," he said. "But I still felt like an idiot, and I don't like feeling that way. I don't want my whole family knowing I was cheated on, you know?"

"Yeah," Ambrose said with a sigh. His mouth twitched, and he shook his head. "Ack…ackshully, no. My mum… my mum doesn't notice stuff. Notice me ." He tugged his shirt up from the hem and got his elbows caught in it, then seemed confused as to what had happened. "Help me?"

Liam helped him pull the shirt over his head. Ambrose emerged from the fabric blinking owlishly.

"I need to lie down," Ambrose said. "I'm wine sleepy, and you made me sad."

"I'm sorry," Liam said.

"You're nice and it's not your fault," Ambrose said. He tugged at the waistband of his jeans. "My pants are stuck."

"They're just done up," Liam said.

"Help?" Ambrose asked pathetically.

"Okay."

"I am not a cheater," Ambrose slurred as Liam tried to help him out of his jeans. "Not ever never."

"Uh huh," Liam said, and tried not to think about how close his hands were to Ambrose's dick.

"I'm a bad boyfriend, but it's pretend," Ambrose told him seriously. He pressed his hands to either side of Liam's face and squeezed. "You have smooshy cheeks. If we were dating, I would never cheat on your smooshy cheeks. "

"Good to know," Liam said. He popped the button on Ambrose's fly. "Please don't be sick."

Ambrose flopped back onto the bed and closed his eyes. He began to snore.

Liam sighed and lifted Ambrose's legs onto the bed. He rolled him onto his side in case he was sick then took his shoes off for him.

Dinner had been…ugh. And it hadn't even been Ambrose, this time. Okay, so Ambrose had gotten pretty hammered again, but that was a rite of passage in the Connelly house, and he hadn't embarrassed either himself or Liam, or more importantly, blurted out that they weren't a real couple.

No, dinner had been a trial because Liam hadn't wanted to listen to a lecture from Marcus on the futures market, whatever the hell that even was, thanks very much. Nobody knew better than Liam that people had different interests—he'd had to reel in the soil talk before when he'd seen people's eyes start to glaze over—and he appreciated that Marcus was passionate about his work, but Jesus, he needed to learn to read a room. There was a time and place for discussing the inner workings of high finance, and a Connelly family dinner wasn't it.

Liam went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth and changed into his sleep pants and T-shirt. Then he came out and took a bottle of water from the small fridge and put it on the nightstand on Ambrose's side of the bed, next to the Panadol he'd left there after Grandad's wine tour. Ambrose was asleep already in his T-shirt and unbuttoned jeans, one arm outflung and hanging over the side of the bed. His eyes were closed, his dark lashes resting on his cheeks and his mouth was open. Liam resisted the urge to run his fingers through his dark, tousled hair.

He turned off the light then lay down on the bed beside Ambrose. He folded his arms behind his head and looked up at the ceiling.

"You weren't supposed to be nice as well as hot," he said to Ambrose.

Ambrose snored gently in response.

Liam blinked himself awake and raised his head off the pillow, squinting as he searched for the persistent, rhythmic buzzing that was coming from somewhere. The buzzing started again, and Liam felt a vibration against his thigh. For a horrible second, he thought that Ambrose was trying out the sex toy from the gift basket, but no, Ambrose was still fast asleep, curled in against Liam's side. The buzzing stopped, and a few seconds later it started again. Ambrose flopped onto his back, and Liam could see that Ambrose's phone had worked its way almost all the way out of his front pocket, and the screen was lit up with the word Mum.

Liam was going to ignore it when the buzzing stopped, but barely a few seconds later it started up again. He prodded Ambrose gently, but he got the same response he did when he tried to move John Phillip off the couch—that is to say, none. As the buzzing continued, he could see the notifications—eight missed calls. He carefully levered the phone out of Ambrose's pocket. It was past midnight. It had to be an emergency, surely?

He swiped the screen and lifted the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Ambrose!" the woman said. She sounded upset.

"No, sorry, it's not?—"

"Ambrose!" Her voice rose. "Why didn't you answer me? And why haven't you called me back? Don't tell me you're still rehearsing?"

Liam had always been a shit liar, but he gave it his best shot, for Ambrose's sake. "Um, yes. Ambrose is still rehearsing," he said. "Can I help you at all?"

"Who are you?" the woman demanded.

"I'm working on the"—Liam racked his sleep-addled brain, trying to remember what he'd heard Ambrose telling his mum—"play with him. Is this some sort of emergency, Mrs Newman?"

The voice changed, became smooth, and almost coquettish. "Please, it's Ms . So how's my boy doing? Isn't he talented?" There was something odd about the way she spoke that Liam couldn't quite put his finger on.

"From what I've seen he's a very good actor," he answered truthfully.

"He gets that from me, y'know." There it was again, that slight slurring. "I could have been a real star, moved to LA, made it big. But no, I chose to have children instead, and by the time they were old enough to take care of themselves, I'd missed my chance at the big time." Liam wasn't sure what he was meant to say to that. There was a sigh, then she said, "Well, I do have some projects in the works. Has Ambrose told you about them?"

Liam had no idea who she thought he was. Someone important? Or maybe she just talked like this to everyone. "Ah…"

"I was nominated for a Gold Logie," she continued. "I had my photograph taken with Bert Newton, but someone's come into my flat and stolen it."

"They stole your Gold Logie?"

She snorted. "I was nominated . I should have won, but it's rigged, you know." She sighed and when she spoke again her voice was oddly tremulous. "Someone stole my photograph. It might be Ambrose. He won't tell me where it is."

God. Liam's stomach twisted. He had no idea what he was dealing with exactly, but something was very wrong with Bella Newman.

"He's very talented," she said, "but I think he's jealous ."

"I don't think Ambrose took your photograph, Ms. Newman," Liam said woodenly. Not that he knew a thing about Ambrose and his potential photo-kleptomania, but he wouldn't have been surprised if there hadn't even been a photograph to begin with. "I'll tell Ambrose you called," he said, disconnecting the call.

Then he slipped the phone back into Ambrose's pocket and lay back down and stared at the ceiling for a very long time, wondering what the hell Ambrose spent his days dealing with. Because she might have been famous once, but Bella Newman was… Liam didn't know how to put it, even in his own head, except to say that Bella Newman wasn't all there.

Ambrose was hungover the next morning and wore his dark sunglasses all through breakfast with the family. When Mum asked what they had planned for the day, Ambrose whispered, "Death." But in the end, he agreed to go for a swim instead.

The pool was behind the house, in a fenced-in oasis of native shrubs and groundcover. Half of it was covered by a shade sail, so no matter how hard the sun was beating down in the summer, the pool was always cool. It didn't need the shade sail today—the clouds were still low and heavy, although the rain had stopped. Grandad had been listening to the weather reports which said the rain was continuing further upstream, which meant the local creeks might flood. Liam wasn't too worried about that. Mild local flooding wasn't unusual around the district this time of year, and they were on high enough ground at Connelly Estate that they wouldn't be too badly affected. One of the tributaries of Middle Creek ran smack across the bottom of the long driveway, but Liam didn't think they'd have any trouble getting through on Tuesday morning in Orhan's HiLux. The rain had two days to clear before it was an issue, anyway.

They weren't the only ones using the pool. Liam's breakfast suggestion had been heartily taken up by his sisters, so now Orhan and Bridget were standing in the shaded shallow end, very gently pushing Balian back and forth between them on some inflatable contraption. Riley was lounging on the steps, engrossed by her phone, which Liam was sure would end in disaster, but hey, it was her funeral.

Neve and Marcus were in the deep end, resting their arms on the side of the pool, their heads close together as they whispered and smiled like the sickening lovebirds they were.

And Ambrose lurked in the shallow end, hunched down so the water was up to his neck, and stared morosely at everything through his sunglasses.

Liam slid through the water to him. "How's the hangover?"

"I have so many life choices to regret but drinking with your grandfather is at the top of the list," Ambrose said.

John Phillip wandered along the side of the pool, stared at Liam, then at the shut pool gate like he wanted it to magically open and let him back outside the pool area, then back at Liam. Liam ignored him .

"I think Grandad would take that as a compliment," he said, and Ambrose's mouth twitched into a grin.

"It really is beautiful here," Ambrose said at last, spreading his fingers on the surface of the water and wriggling them to make tiny waves dance. "It must have been great growing up here." He looked away. "And your family is awesome."

Liam's heart clenched for a moment, as he thought of the phone call last night with Ambrose's mother. It was pretty easy to imagine that Ambrose's upbringing had been incredibly different from his own, and not just because Liam had grown up here and Ambrose had grown up in Macquarie Fields. There was something not quite right with Ambrose's mother, and Liam wondered how long it had been going on. It made his chest ache to think of Ambrose navigating a childhood where he couldn't count on a parent to be there for him.

"Hey," he said softly, "so I don't know if you've checked your phone today, but your mum called last night."

Behind the sunglasses, Ambrose's face froze.

"I answered it," Liam said. "I told her you were rehearsing."

"What'd she want?" Ambrose asked, his voice rasping a little.

"She thinks you stole some photograph."

Ambrose snorted and looked away. "Yeah," he said. "Sounds about right. Don't tell anyone, okay? About how she is. Please."

"I wouldn't," Liam said. "Is there anything that?—?"

Ambrose slid under the water, putting a sudden end to that line of conversation, so Liam figured he might as well do the same. For all the weather was damp, it wasn't actually cold, and the water was refreshing on his skin. He swam the length of the pool underwater and popped up near Riley. Ambrose had climbed out and was drying himself off. He was in a pair of Liam's old boardies, and they'd slid partway down, exposing not only the slope of a nicely curved arse, but also part of a vaguely tribal tattoo across his lower back that suited him more than it had any right to.

"Nice tramp stamp, Ambrose!" Marcus called out. "Got any more?"

Ambrose ignored him as he draped the towel around his shoulders, and Liam didn't blame him. Marcus was turning out to be a bit of a dick. Liam knew Ambrose was still suffering from the night before, so he hauled himself out of the pool, went over to the outside fridge and grabbed a bottle of water and handed it to him. "Here."

"You're a lifesaver," Ambrose said, twisting the top off the bottle and downing most of it in one go. Liam tried not to stare as Ambrose's throat worked and a trickle of pool water ran down the side of his neck, but it was easier said than done—it was a sight worth staring at. He was aware that behind him, Bridget had lifted Balian out of the pool—he could hear him rustling around in the bushes with John Phillip, and making those cute little inquisitive noises he did, as though everything were new and exciting. Which he supposed it was if you'd only existed for fifteen months. But he couldn't tear his gaze away from Ambrose's throat.

"I…" Liam became aware not just of Ambrose's throat, but of his slick, gleaming skin, of his shoulders and his torso, of the dips and valleys of his ribs and muscles, and of the trail of dark hair that led from his bellybutton down into his borrowed boardshorts. And especially of the way the wet fabric clung to his dick, filling Liam with a sudden and desperate desire to see if the dimensions matched his imagination exactly or not .

Ambrose's gaze held his, and Liam almost thought they were having a moment here at the side of the pool. Then Ambrose ruined it by darting forward, pushing Liam out of the way and yelling "Balian!" at the top of his lungs as he leapt into the bushes.