Page 87 of Find You Again (Nashville Star 2)

“I may not be able to play a guitar, but I can sure as hell sing.” She looks to the window again, then turns a wry eye his way. “So two weeks. We could do a lot in two weeks.”

His eyes narrow at the mischievous tone in her voice. “You’re plotting.”

“Not plotting.” She sets her coffee on the table. “So listen, last night I was thinkin’—”

Griff smirks. “Thinkin’, huh? I don’t recall much thinkin’ goin’ on.”

Her lips twitch at the corners. “You know, before the whole sex-in-the-hallway plot twist.”

“Oh, that.” A cavalier shrug, a sip of his coffee. “Completely forgot it even happened.”

Her eyes widen in mock offense. “How dare you, Griff Greyson. I give you my best in my delicate condition and you forget?”

She goes to kick him, but Griff catches up her bare foot and rests it in his lap. Smiling, Alabama settles back in her chair and goes on. “We could fix up the house. This house,” she says when Griff raises a brow. She leans forward, her eyes bright and sparkling. “This house has stories, Griff. Our stories. Della’s. We should treat it right, make it pretty. Maybe it will finally sell, maybe it won’t, but I think it deserves it. Your mom deserves it.”

Griff sits silent for a long moment. His breath’s held tight in his chest. The kindness, the selflessness of her words stuns him. For years, his mother’s death left him lost, left him angry. He’s been haunted by not going home, for failing to do the right thing over and over again. Alabama knows that. And here she is offering to help him put the pieces of his past back together again. To give him another chance to be the man his mama always knew he was.

Goddamn, if he didn’t love her already, this would cement it.

His throat bobs. “Mom would like that.”

Alabama’s smile rivals the sun. “Then let’s do it.” When Griff’s worried eyes land on her arm, she wags a finger. “I can still paint a fence, Griff. Stop worryin’ and let’s have some fun.”

He laughs. “Okay, okay. You convinced me.”

“Good. Now we just gotta—” The smile drops off her lips as Alabama’s eyes flash open.

Griff follows her wide-eyed gaze to the window. Shit.

Newton Forester’s police cruiser sits in the drive. Alabama’s father, barrel-chested and belly-heavy, exits the car, his gun and badge glinting in the sunlight.

Alabama’s face is a mess of nerves. Bracing a hand on the table, she winces as she struggles to push herself up. Griff’s beside her, slipping an arm through hers. “Not so fast,” he warns. “You pull a stitch I’m takin’ you to Doc Hinton.”

She gives him a look. “He’s a vet, Griff.”

“Exactly.”

A sharp rap sounds. Alabama flashes him a harried glance before hurrying to the door. Her face full of hope and excitement, she takes a breath, smooths her hair behind her ears, and then swings it open.

“Daddy, hi,” she says.

Newton stands on the doorstep, stiff and unreadable, a plastic sack tucked under his arm. His eyes examine Alabama, a sudden softness crossing his face, but it disappears when he sees Griff standing behind Alabama in the hall.

“Alabama Grace,” Newton booms. “I heard you were hangin’ around these parts. How you been?”

“I’m good.” Her smile’s wobbly. “How about comin’ in?”

Newton gives a rumble of affirmation and steps inside, moving past Griff without acknowledgment.

“We were just havin’ coffee,” Alabama offers, shutting the door. She steps forward, leading Newton down the hall into the kitchen. “You want a cup?”

“Might as well.”

Griff’s stomach knots up as Newton scans the ancient house, the contents of the bare kitchen. He can already hear the man bitching down at the station about the run-down conditions his daughter’s living in.

“I’ll get it,” Griff says, intercepting Alabama before she can start bustling around. He pours a cup and slides it across the counter to Newton, who sets the plastic sack down.

“Looks to be in the eighties today.” Newton sips his coffee slow and stares out the bay window. “A real scorcher.”

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