She floats him a stern look and a humorless laugh. “Griff.”
“C’mon,” he says, suddenly all business, apparently deciding not to torture her any further. He pushes off the wall and crosses his arms against his chest. His tattooed biceps bulge. “Hydrate, drink your coffee, then get yourself cleaned up.”
She gives him a half-smile. “What is this? Payback?”
“Payback? I’d be lyin’ if I said it didn’t cross my mind, but hell, I ain’t that cruel.” A slow grin spreads across his face. “We’re goin’ out.”
“Where?” She takes a sip of her coffee. It’s heavy with cream and sugar, and Alabama feels a flutter in her chest. Griff—all this time, he’s remembered.
“We’re gonna buy you some boots.”
At her sigh, he gives her a hard, no-nonsense look. “You’re hurtin’, Alabama. Every night you’re onstage, your hip’s givin’ you grief.”
She stares down into her coffee. “That’s not your problem, Griff.”
“Bullshit.”
She looks up, stunned.
There’s anger in his voice, but it’s not directed at her. The hard angle of his jaw tells her he’s angry at himself. A pang of sorrow tears at her heart as she sees the years of guilt etched across his rugged face. Years of blame and shame that have stuck with him all this time.
Griff’s harsh voice takes on a kind of vicious tenderness. “You’re in pain, and I ain’t havin’ that.”
Alabama, at last, admits, “It does hurt. The more I’m onstage, the less I sit, it locks up. It’s gotten worse over the years.”
He gives her a sharp look, and she wonders if he’ll bring up Clover. But he doesn’t. Instead, Griff swallows and moves closer to sit at the end of the bed.
“My scar hurts,” he says, and her eyes leap to his face. “Every time it rains, it aches. And every time it aches, I remember that night and what I did to you.”
Alabama looks at him, wanting to cup his scar beneath her palm and tell him that it’s okay. That she never blamed him for the accident. That all she wants is an explanation for why he left.
She shakes her head. “It was my fault as much as yours. I’m the one who stole my daddy’s Jeep—”
“And I was the one drivin’—”
“Because I asked you to. I’m the one who wanted to go joyridin’ up on the Ridge. I told you to man up and speed up, remember?” He chuckles grimly, and she goes on. “We were both wild, Griff. That’s why we worked. Back then.”
She can’t help the dig, but once she says it, there’s a strange tightening in her chest, a rush of regret that what happened last night won’t happen again.
“Right,” he says, meeting her gaze head-on, and Alabama’s breath hitches. The look in his eyes—brazen? Defiant? Hungry?—leaves her speechless. But before she can fully puzzle out Griff’s piercing gaze, he says, “So how ’bout those boots?”
She smiles. “Okay. Boots.”
Alabama sits on a bench in Tommy’s Fine Boot Fitters, Johnny Cash on the speakers above, watching as Griff gives the frazzled clerk a list of boots a mile long. He’s all confidence and action as he rattles off Alabama’s shoe size and the brands they want and the ones they don’t. The clerk, a skinny teen girl with braces, clearly nervous at being in the presence of Griff Greyson, is doing her best to follow his demands.
Alabama can’t help but smile. It’s their first day off in a week and Griff’s spending it with her, doing the most mundane activity alive, shoe shopping. She steals a glance at his tall, broad-shouldered form. Griff’s changed into jeans and a button-up with the cuffs rolled up to expose arms corded with muscle and tattoos. With his dusty boots and his aviators, he looks like just a guy. A guy she would have known in Clover.
A slice of regret hits her at the memory of the past. They used to be so good together. Hell, ever since this morning it feels as if they’ve arrived at something. What that is, she doesn’t know. Only that their old conversation came back simple and effortless. The bond between them familiar, bordering on friendly. She hates that it was this easy, wishes their connection would have died the second Griff left town, but even twelve years later it’s still kicking. She could always talk to Griff. Being with him, being part of his pair, always made her feel wild and strong. Together, with their tempers, the two of them were like gasoline on a flame. But it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t mean. It was determined. They pushed the other, worked anything out with loud voices but kind mouths. They listened, but more importantly, they took care of each other. Which was exactly what Griff did last night.
She pulls her mind back to the present as Griff moseys over, fingers hooked in his belt loops. “That does it,” he says. “Now we wait. Gonna take her an hour to find everything.”
“Think you scared that poor girl to death,” Alabama quips.
“You scare me to death.” He sits next to her on the bench. He toes her heels, kicked off her feet, strewn on the ground. “Paradin’ around in these around every damn night. Would wear me the hell out.”
Though his voice is gruff, she hears the concern in it.
She smirks. “Tough cowboy, huh? Pair of little heels got you down?” She keeps her voice light, teasing. She’s not in the mood to rehash this morning and talk about the accident. It gets them too close to the past, to where they used to be.