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“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.
