Page 111 of Find You Again (Nashville Star 2)

Alabama exits the doors of the physical therapy clinic, wincing at the pain in her arm. Her PT put her through the wringer, bending and twisting her arm in directions she never knew existed. Though she’s not back to normal yet, and even using the arm hurts, she has more movement than she used to. She won’t be able to hold a guitar for a while, but she’s getting there.

She stares into the setting sun and breathes deep, resisting the urge to check her phone for about the hundredth time today. It’s no surprise Griff hasn’t responded to the message she sent yesterday. The things she said to him—she doesn’t deserve a text back. By now, he’s on a plane, bringing his rebel antics to Europe.

She smiles, finding herself happy for him. He should have all the good things in life.

And so should she. She’s trying to pick up the pieces of her own life since she sent Griff that text. She and her father have been slowly texting back and forth. She doesn’t know what will repair their relationship, but she’s willing to work to get there. And the strangest of the strange, she had brunch with Sal Kincaid this morning. It was nice to talk to another woman who was fighting to get what she wanted out of life, despite every shit thing it had handed her. A year ago, if someone had told her that Sal would be the closest thing she had to a friend in Nashville, she would have told them they were crazy.

Now, she just calls it a second chance.

She pauses at her car, the purse over her shoulder swinging awkwardly. “Damn it,” she mutters, trying to dig around one-handed for her car keys.

“You need some help, sweetheart?”

She gasps and drops her purse, the contents and the keys spilling out over the asphalt.

She spins around, her eyes widening in surprise at the source of the voice.

Griff Greyson stands in front of her, looking roguish and disheveled, a smirk on his handsome face.

“Griff.” She stares, then shakes herself awake. If her jaw got any lower, it’d be on the ground. “You should be on a plane right now.”

He takes a step toward her, his eyes warm and searching. “Yeah, well, let’s just say I had more important places to be.”

Worry twists her stomach. “But the tour—”

“Don’t you worry about the tour.” Before she can say anything else, he dips down to retrieve her belongings. When he straightens up, he hands over her purse and says, “I don’t like how we left things, Al.” His voice is laced with regret.

“I know. I don’t like it either.” Alabama bites her lip. She’s trembling as if all she wants to do is toss herself into his arms and stake her claim. But she forces herself to come down to earth, to focus on the man in front of her.

Griff’s Adam’s apple bobs. “I was hopin’ I could have a chance to talk to you.”

She nods. “Yeah, you can,” she says, near breathless, near hope.

“Then c’mon. Take a ride with me.” He tosses her a reproachful look. “You shouldn’t be drivin’ anyway.”

On rubber legs, Alabama follows Griff to his pickup truck, a shiny black behemoth in need of a wash. He helps her in, then settles beside her in the driver’s seat. “It ain’t far,” he says, catching her stare. “Just right around the block.”

“Sounds good.” She keeps her hands tucked in her lap, so they don’t seek him out.

“How’s the arm?” He glances over at her, his shrewd eyes taking in the absence of bandage, of sling.

“Sore, but it’s gettin’ there.” She smiles. “Great recommendation on the therapist, by the way.”

He nods and looks back at the road. In silence, they take the surface streets until, minutes later, Griff pulls into a parking lot. Alabama tilts her head when she sees the sign. Barn Door Studios.

She cocks her head to the side. “Griff. Why’re we here?”

“Easy, woman.” He cracks a mischievous grin. “I’ll give you answers in a second. First, you gotta follow me.”

Alabama lets out a growl of frustration but follows Griff’s lead. They enter the front office, a small space with black-and-white photos of musicians on the wall. The cowboy-hat-wearing receptionist at the front desk raises her face and gestures to a clipboard. “You have a session booked?”

“Sure do,” Griff says.

“Then please sign in and you can go on back to booth number three.”

Alabama shakes her head when she sees the name Griff’s put down on the sign-in sheet. The Copper Hounds. She reaches out and grips his forearm. “You ain’t serious?”

His tawny eyes hold steady on hers. “You still got that song on you?”

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