Page 78 of Find You Again (Nashville Star 2)

And still, doubt needles her heart.

She needs help, but Griff doesn’t have to give it. He should be on tour instead of going back to Clover to play house with her. Soon, they’ll be turned loose in the real world. They’ll be in Clover, where every good and bad reminder of the past will be unearthed.

Coming home could bring out the old wounds in Griff.

He could run. Again.

She has to be real about this. About them. Sure, they have five shows left—but what are they to each other? Despite the confessions of love, no one’s made promises; no one’s talked about the future.

She dares a quick glance at Griff. She loves him. She knows that without a doubt. But is she a fool? Is she making the same mistake all over again?

Griff, feeling her gaze on him, glances over. “Somethin’ on your mind, sweetheart?”

She takes a breath and opens her mouth. “I know it’s too late, we’re here, but ... you still have time to turn back.” His brow furrows and she goes on. “I didn’t give you much choice in the hospital. You don’t have to do this. You don’t owe me anything. Least of all takin’ care of me when you could be on the road.”

His lips thin out, a cloud of a storm darkening his face. He’s angry. Pissed off if she had to use a better word. “That ain’t what this is.”

“Griff—”

“Look, if you think I’m gonna drop you off in your dad’s front yard you got another thing comin’.”

The words come out like gunfire, and Alabama sits back, abashed. Griff keeps his eyes glued to the road, his knuckles white on the wheel.

Then he takes a breath and looks her way again. He holds her stare, fire blazing in his eyes. “I love you, Al. Okay? You hear me? You get that through your stubborn skull and fast.”

Alabama smiles faintly. “You’re just sayin’ that because I took a bullet for you.”

Griff curses at her but reaches out to squeeze her thigh. His touch is warm, comforting, and she’s surprised to feel hot tears beading her eyes. Not wanting Griff to see and worry, she turns her face to the window. They’re on Main Street, coming up on the town square.

Clearing her throat, forcing away memories of the gunshot, Alabama taps the glass. She eyes the carved statue of Griff the town erected when his first album went platinum. “There you are ...”

He makes a sound of disgust and increases their speed.

Soon, they’re on Lonestar Road, pulling into the drive of Griff’s house. The For Sale sign hangs at a crooked angle, the shutters have seen better days, the grass is dry and dead, but it’s all still there. All is as Alabama remembers, and the lead weight in her stomach is replaced by one of hope.

Home.

Alabama brightens, seeing a friendly sight. Holly, her curly blond hair wrapped in a red bandanna, sits on the front porch. She stands when Griff cuts the engine, throwing up her arms to crow, “Well, lookie what we got here! The big city slickers comin’ home to roost.”

Exiting the truck, Griff walks around to the passenger side and opens the door. Instead of helping her out, he slips his arms beneath her, cradling her close.

Alabama flushes, looping her good arm around his neck. “I can walk, Griff,” she says as he carries her to the porch steps. “My legs ain’t broken.”

With a grunt that tells her he doesn’t care, he gently sets her down next to Holly. Alabama wobbles but steadies once Holly pulls her into a loose hug. “My baby, my precious gem, my poor little shot princess.”

Griff grimaces at Holly’s words. But all he says is, “Watch her arm.”

Smiling, Alabama pulls back. Holly, unsure where her hands should go, because normally she’d be all over Alabama with the eagerness of a puppy, clasps them to her chest. “You gave me a fright, Al,” she says, tears in her eyes.

“I know.” She squeezes Holly’s arm. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”

Hope held high in her chest, Alabama scans the yard for another familiar face. Holly, following her gaze, says in the lowest of low voices, “Your daddy ain’t comin’, Al.”

Her mouth goes dry. “Oh.”

A harsh, angry swear blasts from Griff.

Holly bites her lip, her face etched with sympathy. “He’ll be by, he’s just ... you know, station stuff.”

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