Griff clenches his jaw, any effort to restrain himself gone. “Goddamn it, you’re still so fuckin’ infuriating, aren’t you?”
“I’m infuriatin’?” Her eyes flash. “You come strollin’ in here twelve years later. Everyone loves you because Griff Greyson can do no wrong, when you ain’t never even been back home, not even when—”
She snaps her mouth shut, refusing to finish the sentence. But it doesn’t matter. Griff knows what she was going to stay. He missed his own mother’s funeral. Like the asshole he is, he didn’t even try to make it back from his overseas tour. It’s not that he hates Clover—he hates what he left. What he lost.
Alabama’s guilty gaze is on the ground.
Griff tries to ignore the growing pit in his stomach.
“It’s nothin’ fancy,” he says, picking up the conversation. Her gray eyes slide toward him. “Dive bars. Twenty cities. Six weeks on the road.”
A long silence. At first, he thinks she’ll walk, shut him down again, and then she says, “Gee. You’re really sellin’ it.”
Griff shrugs. “No skin off my back if you come or not. I don’t want you,” he says, more harshly than he intended, causing Alabama to flinch. “CMI does.”
Alabama considers the offer. Then her face turns sour. “Why would a label want me?” Her words, doubtful and lost, have his stomach flipping. “I’m a train wreck.”
A wave of guilt crashes over him. Freddie’s words in his head, the real reason for bringing her on board. He takes a rallying breath, trying to remind himself why he’s here. That this is about saving his label, his tour. It’s not about Alabama. Not one damn bit.
“Because you’re a good singer,” he grunts. “And I told ’em that.”
Her mouth forms a tight line at the words. “Spare me your favors, Griff.”
He sighs. He gets what he gets. And it’s a wall. A big brick wall with barbwire wrapped around it. That woman’s on fire. Angry. Haunted, too. He sees it in her eyes. She never let go of the past. She’s never forgiven him. Hell, he’s never forgiven himself. He knows he left her without an explanation. Without an apology. He deserves every single ounce of her wrath because she deserves the truth.
But what would he tell her? That the accident was his fault? That he has nightmares every night of rolling that Jeep? That the memory of Alabama saying in that soft serious drawl of hers, “Griff, I think we’re idiots. I think we’re hurt,” still has him wanting to break down bawl like a baby?
He did that to her.
Maybe if she knew the truth about why he left, maybe it would—
No.
It’s too late now. He can’t get close to her. Not again. All he’s good for is hurting her. And he won’t do it. If he has to cut his hands off to keep his distance, so be it.
“While you’re here ...” He watches as Alabama digs around in the pockets of her apron. She unveils the copper penny they earned so long ago. “You should take this.”
His breath stalls in his chest as she finally, fucking finally, closes the distance between them. She presses the small disc into his palm.
Griff clutches the penny in his sweaty hand and stares down at it, trying desperately to ignore the sting of pain she’s just flattened him with by this one simple act. He knows what she’s doing. Knows she’s getting rid of the last piece of connection between them. But it doesn’t stop him from saying, from choking out the painful words, “That’s yours.”
“I’m not lucky, Griff,” Alabama says, her eyes downcast. “Not anymore.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a bright light flashes, blinding them both. Alabama utters a stunned exclamation, her cry like a starter pistol.
Griff, gripped by some primal instinct to protect her, revs into action. His heartbeat pounding in his ears, he grabs her arm and pulls her behind him. Quick, he snatches up an empty beer bottle from the ground. Blinking away bright sunbursts, he scours the darkness. “What the fuck?”
Alabama’s hand drifts to Griff’s shoulder, and at her touch, he freezes. Her lilting drawl floats soft in the night. “It’s the Nashville Star. They got all their damn reporters out here houndin’ me for a story.”
“Well, they got it now,” Griff grumbles, thinking about the photo that’ll be in tomorrow’s Nashville Star. Apparently, Alabama is too, her brow creased by a bothered frown.
“That’s the last thing I need,” she says, dropping the hand from his shoulder and moving dazedly away from him. “A picture of you and me ...” She trails off, no doubt thinking of Luke Kincaid and that entire mess. Griff clenches a fist. He could kill that guy for hanging Al out to dry. For throwing her to the wolves.
“So go on tour with me.” He floats her a crooked grin. “Let’s give ’em somethin’ to talk about.”
Her eyes drift to his hands, his fist wrapped tight around the neck of the beer bottle. “It’s gonna be like that? The whole tour?”
He flinches at the cool tone in her voice. That’s precisely the reason he’s dreading her presence on this tour. She comes along, he’s a changed man. He already knows it. He can’t have that. He’ll cross lines, boundaries he’s sworn off forever.
She flaps a dismissive hand. “Go on, Griff. Get outta here. You got better things to do than slum it in Clover.”
“Think about it,” he says gruffly. “I won’t be here in the morning.”
Then he’s moving fast for the door.
He’s already praying for sunrise. First chance tomorrow, he’s getting the hell away from Clover. And Alabama Forester.