Alabama wakes up in last night’s clothes with a warm blanket wrapped around her. She lies there, in the cool, quiet darkness of her bedroom, blinking away an uneasy sleep. She can feel the memories of the evening swirling around her, and she mashes fingers against her brow like she can work out all the kinks. Kinks like too much tequila. Like a cowboy. Like—
Oh, good Lord. Oh, shit.
The memory hits her like a sledgehammer.
She sits up in bed with a strangled gasp.
Griff.
She kissed him.
A flush of hot shame washes through her. Alabama groans and buries her face in her hand like she can block the image of Griff’s lips on hers. She had wanted him—so bad she could feel the ache in her bones. Wanted him to take her to bed and treat her like just another of his women. Wanted him to wrap his hands in her long red hair and pull.
But all he did was stop her. Stop her before she could go too far, before she could beg.
She groans again.
Thank God he turned her down. She can’t get mixed up with another man she works with. The memory of kissing Luke Kincaid, the embarrassment she felt when it all came out ... she has no choice but to keep it platonic.
Besides, there is no past; there is no Alabama and Griff. There is just Alabama. Her tour, her money to make, her reputation to get back. No matter how much her body is screaming at her that she’s a damn fool.
She bites her lip, wanting to tear into it and taste blood as images of last night flit through her memory. Griff coming to her rescue, giving the cowboy the boot, carrying her back to the bus, slipping off her shoes, tucking her into bed.
She groans. She is a damn fool. She never thought she’d be saying this, but thank God for Griff Greyson. While she didn’t feel danger last night, she had put herself in a dangerous situation and she’s grateful to Griff for watching out for her when no one else was. For taking care of her when she was at her worst.
She sits there in the dim light, her world spinning with awareness, until the crack of the door gets her attention.
Oh, God. Double shit.
It’s Griff.
“Hey there,” he says, sauntering in without bothering to ask permission. He looks put-together. Sober. Showered. Sexy as hell. His muscles strain against the fabric of his tight white T-shirt. She watches as he sets a cup of coffee on the nightstand beside an already-full glass of water, then cracks the blinds to let in a thin sliver of light.
She waits for it. A snide comeback, a rude remark, but there’s nothing. Only his intent gaze on her. “How you feelin’?”
Alabama winces but manages a smile. “I’m okay. Embarrassed.”
“Nah,” he says quietly. “Don’t be.”
She draws the sheet up around herself and inhales a sharp breath. “About last night ... you got me out of there before I made a fool of myself. It wasn’t a dangerous situation”—here, Griff’s face tightens—“but it could have been. I’m sorry.”
He leans back against the wall. “You don’t gotta be sorry about anything.” His eyes hold hers. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“Me too. I’m glad you were there. Thank you,” she says, meaning it.
“You’re welcome, Al.”
And it’s like something passes between them. A truce of some kind. A surge of emotion, a gratefulness that their orbits are still orbiting.
Alabama takes another breath. Better to get it all out now. “Also, I’m sorry for sloppily kissin’ you last night.”
He grins. “I ain’t so sure about that. Best sloppy kiss of my life.”
The word kiss sets something off in her and Alabama glances down at the bed, trying to ignore the wistful rush of heat in her thighs, her belly dipping so far down she can feel it in her toes.
“Well, sloppy or not, it was inappropriate, and I didn’t mean it,” she says hastily, tugging the fallen strap of her dress up on her shoulder. “When I drink, I get ... wild.”
“Wild,” he echoes. The arch of his brow tells her he’s wondering what exactly constitutes a wild Alabama Forester. “I knew there was a name for the girl I saw last night.”