It was the biggest regret of his life—leaving Alabama. He swore when he made it big he’d go back and get her. Only he never did. The guilt of hurting her was too strong. Her father was right. He’d just get her hurt again, drag her down with him.
He’ll never love anyone like he loved Alabama. All the women, they don’t mean a goddamn thing. Love ’em and leave ’em, and no one gets hurt. It’s the Griff Greyson way of life.
It’s how he survived day after day in Nashville. Missing Alabama didn’t feel so bad, not when he loved the wrong women, stumbled out of bars, swung a fist at anyone who pissed him off.
Still, he still can’t help but wonder what would have happened if he stayed and they went to Nashville together. Would they have made it? Would they still be together?
Griff lets out a long breath and snaps shut the box. He buries the ring beneath a rolled sock and slams the dresser drawer closed, earning the toppling of a few picture frames. Then he stalks to the bed. Zipping open his duffel bag, he snatches up a shirt and crams it in. He meant what he said. He’s leaving before sunrise. Sticking around in Clover is bad for his health, and what his health needs is a drink.
He searches the room for the bottle of whiskey he stashed. He’s pouring out a fistful into an old tumbler when the glint of headlights through the window catches his attention. A truck’s coming down the old dirt drive to his mama’s house. Griff checks the bedside clock. Late or early depending how you look at it. Either way, company shouldn’t be calling at this hour.
He shoots back the shot.
Storming to the closet, he snatches up the shotgun and heads to the front door, ready to light the late-night caller up with a warning shot.
He flings the front door open and pounds down the porch steps. Then he frowns. Alabama’s hopping out of the rusty truck, barefoot, her hair a trail of fire behind her, lit up in the headlights.
“Shirtless and holdin’ a shotgun. How’d a girl get so lucky?” Her soft drawl’s a lilt in the dark.
Griff lowers the shotgun, his heart pumping fast. “It’s two thirty in the mornin’, Alabama. What the hell are you doin’ here?” he snaps, unhappy about her driving around on unlit back roads in the dead of night.
She merely arches a brow. “You don’t gotta growl at me like some ol’ ex-con. I hear you.” She juts her chin. “You can put that gun away too.”
He leans the shotgun against the porch railing. As he watches her long legs walk across the grass, his eyes narrow. Is she limping? Yeah. Definitely a limp. His stomach fills with lead as he realizes it’s a carryover from the accident.
Alabama takes in the run-down farm. Empty stables, rusted wind chimes, cracked and crooked shutters. Her lips purse. “This place has seen better days.”
“Been on the market five years,” Griff says, crossing his arms.
“Poor thing,” Alabama murmurs. “I always loved this house.”
Griff knew she did. His mama’s house was like a second home to Al. She was always over, helping his mama with dinner, talking about music. His mama, Della, was the best type of woman. She was always there for Alabama—and Griff. His father left and his mother worked her ass off in her small salon to give him a good life. And she did. She gave him a guitar, and her last name, and the tools to be a good man.
Too bad he never used ’em.
He grunts. “Ain’t never gonna sell.”
“That’s because it’s run-down.” Alabama moves closer to the front porch. She runs a finger over the chipped paint on the railing. Griff’s eyes hold on her face, swirling up images of her and him singing all night long on the front porch as his mama sang right along with them. “A fresh coat of paint will do wonders.”
“You came over to tell me that?”
Her eyes flick to his. “Oh, yeah. I moonlight as a home renovator. Didn’t you know?”
Griff shuts his eyes and rubs his temple. Alabama’s giving him a headache like no other woman ever could.
“Al,” he presses. The whiskey’s burning a hole in his stomach. “Why’re you here?”
“It’s tomorrow.” She points at the starry horizon. “You won’t be here, remember?” Her smile’s resigned. “I’ll do it. I’ll do the tour.”
Griff sniffs. “You said no. What makes you think I want you now?” He keeps his voice cool, tough, even though his heart’s just skipped all kinds of beats.
Her expression flattens. “You want me, Griff.”
The blunt statement has the front of his pants stiffening. He can’t deny it. He wants her. On tour. In his bed. But it’d be wrong; it’d be a risk he can’t take. He won’t do that to her, not again.
“What changed your mind?”
She gives a little shrug. “I figure I can do somethin’ I’m good at or sweat my ass off at the tavern for the rest of my life. So, I choose door number one.”