Page 92 of Find You Again (Nashville Star 2)

The next week passes by in a slow blur of laziness. Long days sleeping in, penning new songs by the fire, watching bad TV, and working on the house. In less than a week, they’ll be on a bus to Austin to finish out the last five shows in the tour.

Their time in Clover is ticking down.

And while Griff knows Alabama is anxious to get back on the road, he’s enjoyed the time spent in Clover. Though the bad memories aren’t gone, they’ve been replaced. With new memories. With Alabama. With promises of the future.

Lifting his head, Griff glances at Alabama. She’s on the opposite end of the couch, her legs tucked beneath Griff’s, notebook in hand. He smiles at the small frown lines creasing her brow as she reads the lyrics they wrote this morning.

She’s come alive since being here; they both have.

Sensing his eyes on her, she looks up and smiles. “Why do I feel like we haven’t moved from this couch?” she asks, giving a little stretch.

“Because we haven’t.”

She scoffs, her look dubious. “You’re forgetting about the thirty pounds of lumber we hauled yesterday, and the cans of paint, and the rototiller we rented.”

“You’re right,” Griff says. “My back won’t let me forget it.”

She winces, an apology in her eyes. “I’m sorry. You’ve been doing most of the work.”

He pins a stern gaze on her. “Don’t think I didn’t see you out there tryin’ to steer that wheelbarrow one-handed.”

She flushes at being caught, then she laughs, reaching down to skim her fingers against his. “C’mon. Let’s go fix up those dents in the barn roof. I still need to paint the front door.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “We’re in the homestretch, Greyson.”

He groans. All he wants to do is stay here with Alabama beside him. He hasn’t felt this content in ages.

Griff grunts. “You know, your work ethic is not my most favorite thing about you.” But he swings his legs off the couch.

Alabama does the same, but she moves too fast and bites back a gasp. Her good hand flies to her sling.

Whip-quick, Griff’s there. He kneels in front of her, his eyes scanning her. “You okay?”

Her face is a mess of pain. “Fine,” she grits out. She lets out a sigh of frustration. “Never gonna go away, is it?”

Griff’s heart clenches at the dejected look on Alabama’s face. He aches to take away her pain. She’s healing quickly, the stitches long since dissolved. But the doctor warned them both that she was in for a long recovery. Both physically and emotionally. She’ll have a scar that’ll never fade, and physical therapy to do for her arm. It could be months before she can play a guitar. If ever.

“It’ll get better,” he says and slides a hand over her knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll just take time.”

“Yeah.” She exhales a long breath, her face determined, courageous. “I’ll have to see someone when I get back to Nashville.”

Griff nods. “I got some names if you want them.”

She looks at him quick, curious. “What do you mean you ‘got some names’?”

He clears his throat, hating the look she’s giving him. The look that tells him she’s caught him being a good guy. He started researching physical therapists the night they got into Clover. He found the best ones in Nashville. No goddamn way was he letting her go to some Joe Schmo off the street.

“Therapists,” he says gruffly. “For your arm.”

A small smile plays on her lips. “Griff Greyson, you’ve been doin’ research for little ol’ me?”

He growls. “Just take the damn recommendation.”

Her face turning serious, she leans forward and sweeps her lips across his. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Very much.”

His throat constricting, Griff stands and helps Alabama do the same. “You ready to get to work or you just plannin’ to bust my balls all day?”

“Hmm. Maybe later.”

She tosses him a flirty smile, moving past him, brushing her body against his. Griff’s heart twists, every part of him wanting her more than the air he breathes.

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