The call ends with a click. Griff pinches his temples and lets out a frustrated growl. His head hurts like hell, and all he wants to do is go back to bed, but he can’t stop thinking about Alabama. His brain is unsettled by all the shady shit Freddie keeps asking him to do. To slap a label on Alabama. To just use her like everyone else. When all he wants to do is ...
Christ. He doesn’t know anymore.
Once again, Griff’s mind drifts.
Last night. He doesn’t know what came over him. He had sworn up and down he would stay away from her, but the sight of Alabama looking too goddamn gorgeous nearly undid him. Her long, bare legs, her shock of red hair, her deep Texas drawl that intrudes when she’s hot and bothered. That fiery girl he had loved came back to him. Calling him on his bullshit, going toe to toe, pouring out his beer—Alabama was the only woman who could ever put him in his place.
He smears his face in his hands, knocking his sunglasses cockeyed. Fuck. What’s happening to him? She’s making him soft. Making him the man he was when he was with Alabama.
A sharp knock on the door has him wincing. No doubt Brian coming to lay down some life lessons. “Go away,” he snaps, leveling his voice with the threat of death.
The door swings open to reveal Alabama. Griff’s stomach tenses at the sight of her. She stands in the doorway, wearing a white sweater dress, her face stony, a bottle of water in her hands. “Get up.”
“Go away.”
Griff lets out an oof as the bottle of water slams him in the stomach.
“Damnit, woman,” he snarls, ripping off his sunglasses to glare at her.
She frowns down at him. “We got a show in Lexington tonight. And I warned you, Griff. Tomorrow’s today.” Griff feels himself hardening beneath the sheets. The bossy tone of her voice turns him on like nothing else. She bares her teeth. “Get. Up. Now.”
He does. He drags himself out of bed to stand in front of her, lifting his arms in a what-now gesture, and then drops them at his side.
“You tell me what we’re doin’ at least?”
“There’s a weight room at the hotel.” She tosses her glossy red hair. “I called ahead. We’ll be there in ten. You’re gonna get dressed and get your ass in there, and get it together. Go sweat it out.”
He nods, as if he has a choice in the matter.
“Listen.” Griff slicks a hand through his hair. “About last night, what I said—”
She lifts a palm. “We all do dumb things when we drink,” she says, and the knot in his throat tightens. “Already forgotten.”
“Still,” he says, holding her eyes. He needs to get this right, to make sure she knows he means it. “I never should have said it. I acted like an asshole to you and I’m sorry.”
Alabama pulls herself up straight, her thin shoulders stiff. She studies his face, her gray eyes reading him like no one else can. “This is the last time I do this,” she warns. “I ain’t babysittin’ you. That ain’t what I signed on to do. I signed on to sing and I hope you’ll let me do that.”
“I got it. And I will. I won’t wreck this for you.” He stares at her and then nods. “I promise. No fights. No boozin’.”
Griff’s heart soars at the hope that brightens her face. And then and there he knows he can’t let her down. Not again. She deserves this tour. More than he does.
“Thank you.” Though she gives a curt nod, a familiar softness flickers in her eyes.
Then, she points a lean arm toward a pile of clothes stacked on a corner chair. “Now march.”
Griff grunts. “Yeah, yeah.” He tosses her a look as he sniffs a T-shirt, checking its clean factor. “You enjoyin’ this, ain’t you, sweetheart?”
Her gorgeous face breaks out into a sly smile. “Enjoyin’ watchin’ you sweat it all out, no doubt.”
Griff steps into the bathroom, not even bothering to hide a groan at every ache and pain that runs through his body. “I hate you for this,” he tells Alabama as he dips his head to chug the trickle of water from the faucet.
He hears her smile through the door. “You better sing your ass off tonight, Griff Greyson, because if you don’t I’m gonna kick it. To high heaven.”
After her set, Alabama takes a spot backstage, watching Griff as he performs “Get While the Getting’s Good,” a rollicking number from one of his very first albums.
Are you gonna get while the getting’s good?
Are you gonna be that girl who says she could?