Griff stretches in the booth. “You should hear me out. I got good stuff to say.”
She shakes her head, turning on her heel to walk away. “You got nothin’ I wanna hear. I’m leavin’, Griff.”
“Won’t talk, huh?” She’s horrified when he slips out of the booth and starts walking backwards to the stage, his arms held out. “Maybe we should let the audience decide, huh? See what they say?”
He hops on the stage to wild hoots and hollers, the tavern patrons recognizing that their golden boy is back in town. Even Holly’s dimming the house lights.
Alabama rolls her eyes. Damn showboater. His antics, his cavalier attitude, irk her. Peacocking around onstage when his focus should be the music. Although she doesn’t know what she’s griping about. She did the same thing.
“What do you think, folks?” he drawls into the microphone. Feedback reverberates, clears. “Can y’all clap if you think I deserve a second of this pretty lady’s time? I think we might get along, but she’s a little shy.”
Alabama snorts.
Scattered applause. Alabama glances over her shoulder to see Holly clapping along with rabid enthusiasm. “Really?” she asks her friend.
At least Holly has the grace to look shamefaced.
“Sing a song!” someone shouts.
“A song?” A sly grin curls Griff’s lips. He pins his gaze to Alabama’s. Her stomach flips, recognizing the look. Shit. Nothing good’s coming from this.
Griff pretends to think on it. “Suppose I could.” He wraps a hand around the mic, the devil in him ready to cause trouble. “How about one from Alabama Forester’s repertoire?”
Her cheeks burn hot with embarrassment. She knows what he’s about to do. Trot her horrid pop-country songs out onstage for a crowd that’s loyal as hell to Willie, Waylon and Hank.
“Maybe ‘Little Black Dress’ or ‘Leather and Lace’ or even—”
Griff’s voice dies a slow death as Alabama steps forward and rips the plug from the microphone. “Outside,” she hisses, resisting the impossible urge to drag Griff offstage by his throat. “Now.”
“Now was that really so damn hard?” Griff asks when they’re outside.
His stomach clenches from nerves, and he almost tells Alabama to walk back in the bar and get him a drink, but he knows she’d knock him flat on his ass.
Alabama, her arms crossed, stalks across the alley, ensuring at least five feet kept between her and Griff. “You’re an asshole,” she snaps, shooting him a vicious glare.
He knows he is. He wasn’t trying to embarrass her in there, just get her pissed off enough to talk, but he knows he did just that. He saw her face. Cringing at those shitty pop-country songs. He saw it in her eyes whenever CMT interviewed her. She hated those songs. A bet he’d place good money on.
Pushing was always one tactic Griff used to get Al to talk. She was a live wire snapping. You had to push her until you saw flames.
Griff rubs the back of his head. “It worked, didn’t it? We’re out here. Talkin’.”
“Then talk.” She lifts her chin, her face pale and unreadable in the soft glow of the back door light.
Griff’s heart flips in his chest. He tried not to stare back in the tavern, tried to focus instead on busting her balls, but now—now it’s all he can do. Nothing could have prepared him for the up-close vision that is Alabama Forester.
The tall, lanky girl from years ago has given way to a woman with a body that has curves in all the right places. Her simple white T-shirt and blue jeans practically look hand-painted on. Her long red hair is an even deeper copper color than he remembered. He can’t help but lose himself in Alabama’s face. In her long dark lashes, her eyes the color of bare stone, the slight gap between her two front teeth that still gives her that adorable earnestness he’s always loved. It’s the girl he remembers. The woman he’s never seen onstage. Down home. Drop-dead gorgeous. Even if the look she’s currently giving him means to incinerate him.
“Griff?” Her soft drawl calls him back. She lifts her arms slightly, lets them fall back to her side. “What do you want?”
Her voice, tired, cautious, hangs in the space between them.
Keeping his face calm, his emotions in check, he says, “I want you to come on tour with me.”
Her eyes narrow. “What?”
“I’m supposed to go on tour next week. The label wants you to open for me.”
She scoffs. “You’re unbelievable. Take your offer and shove it, Greyson.”