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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.
Chapter Twelve
Liam
“You 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.”
