I’m not your wild card, never ...
When the song is finished, she opens her eyes. As the daze lifts, as sound rushes back, she hears wild boot stomps, shrieking whistles, raucous applause.
Her chest heaves as she drinks in air, drinks in the applause meant for her. Smiling, she stares into the bright lights and scours the clapping crowd.
That’s when her heart hitches in her chest.
Griff.
He’s sitting alone at the far end of the bar, on the outskirts of the audience, nursing a beer. His expression nearly has her knees buckling. Awe. Sheer awe and pride shine in his eyes.
His reaction has her shivering. Has her hearkening back to Clover, his constant support, him snapping his fingers and saying, “That’s the stuff, Al, that’s it.”
When Alabama smiles, he tugs the brim of his trucker hat down, and an acknowledgment of something unsaid, a promise not yet claimed, passes between them.
She raises a hand and points out into the audience. The spotlight drifts and finally settles on Griff. A cocky smile on his face, he tips his beer to the crowd. “Well,” she drawls into the mic, over the hoots and cheers. “You’re in luck. You want Griff Greyson, you got him.”
With a confident swagger, Griff crosses the bar. He scales the stage like a pro, a beer bottle held loose in his hands as he strides toward Alabama.
She smiles at him, eyes bright as she passes him the mic. Her heartbeat pumps double-time as their fingers brush, every nerve ending on fire, Griff’s eyes locked on her face.
“Good luck,” she says.
She doesn’t stick around to hear his reply, and as she turns on her heel to make her exit, she can feel his gaze burning a hole into her back as the audience screams his name.
They’re not the only ones who want Griff Greyson.