After a restless sleep, Alabama wakes early. She exits her room, and after a quick glance at Griff’s shut door, she pads down the hall to the writing room just off the main lounge. Hell, if she’s gonna screw Griff Greyson, she’s gonna make damn good music while doing it.
The writing room is a small six-by-six square with low couches and tables for penning new tunes. While she’s surprised Griff’s bus has something like this, she’s thankful. It’s a delightful little slice of quiet away from all the on-the-road chaos.
She sinks into a chair and opens her notebook. Blank pages. She hasn’t written anything since Clover and figures a new notebook equals a new start.
Although judging how things went last night, she probably set herself back to the Stone Age.
Alabama grimaces and rubs her brow, a fresh headache on the horizon.
She’s lost her damn mind doing what she did with Griff. She tried to keep it strictly professional, and she couldn’t. It wasn’t a mistake, but it can’t happen again. She wants nothing from him.
Except his body. Those blue jeans. That cocky grin as his mouth sucked on her—
“Idiot,” she mutters, a hot flush coating her cheeks, and scribbles that note in the margins.
She needs to stop this now. She knows she danced around a promise last night, a promise to keep this going, which isn’t a good look for her. She’s trying to drag her reputation out of the gutter, not kick it in any further. If this got out ... she’d only be seen as the woman who puts the moves on every man she works with. Griff, he’d be fine, probably even score another record deal out of it. She’d lose any shot of having a serious career. The career she’s always wanted. This is her chance, and she can’t give that up for anyone. Especially Griff Greyson. Especially not when he left her first.
But last night, that doesn’t track for the man she pegged him for. She saw what he was asking her, what he was telling her. He’s in. Committed. The raw bluntness of his words had her fumbling for a response. She couldn’t find one, couldn’t decide on her answer, so she took her boots and she ran.
She slept on it.
And now ... now the shitty thing is—she wants Griff.
Alabama doesn’t know how she can deny it any longer. Her heart, the past tugs at her, leads her down a path she’s walked before. She wants to keep this going, this whole what-if thing between them.
She wants to keep it casual. But still.
Still her and Griff.
Shaking off her foolish lust-filled thoughts, she turns her attention to her notebook, remembering a line Griff said last night. About the two of them.
I found you again and I ain’t lettin’ go.
So she puts pen to paper and scribbles “Find You Again.” It’s a damn good title. Could be a damn good song.
A small smile curls her lips. She should get Griff in here and really bust out this song. Like the old days. Like the good days. Why the hell not? As much as she hates giving the cocky son of a bitch credit, they were good together. They may as well make something together if they’re going to do this keep-it-casual-only fling.
And that’s all it is.
Casual.
A sharp rap sounds on the door.
Tucking her notebook under her arm, Alabama rises, ready to just do this thing. Ready to throw herself on the mercy of Griff Greyson and let her hair down and have some fun.
Only, when she swings the door open, the smile slips from her face. She blinks. “Brian.”
“Good mornin’,” he says. His big brass buckle glitters, his meaty fingers hooked through his belt loops. Alabama fights the urge to laugh. The pose is straight-up Griff’s.
“Mornin’. You know, I was just on my way to get Griff.” Her voice is overly loud in the small room.
Brian leans an arm in the doorway. “Do you need Griff?”
She stares at him. “What?”
“I thought you were trying to make a new start, Alabama,” Brian says, stepping inside the room and shutting the door behind him. “You do the tour with us, you keep your hands off the merchandise, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get new rep again.”
She clenches her jaw but keeps her voice light. “I don’t know what’s got you on a tear, Bri, but—”