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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.”
