Freddie gives him a look reserved for a child. “Griff, I know you feel bad for her, but that’s your dick talking. You forget why this whole thing started in the first place. To save your own ass. You wanted this. And you got it.”

He did. He had wanted to make the label happy, to avoid getting his ass dropped. It was what he wanted, only now ... now it’s not what he wants at all.

“Look, I don’t know what the big fuss is. You didn’t want her in the first place. Which reminds me.” Freddie digs around in her purse and comes up with a crisp fifty-dollar bill. “I owe you.”

He stares in horror as she presses the money in his palm.

“Who can forget our bet?” Freddie utters a merry laugh and Griff’s stomach plunges. “‘I’ll have her in bed in a week.’” Her British accent disappears as she mimics Griff’s gruff Texas twang. “I was quite doubtful at the time, but you proved me wrong, you cad.”

His throat constricting, he stares at the money in his hand, hating it. Hating himself, hating the cruel bet he made about Alabama. Hating that he’s not that guy anymore—that selfish asshole only concerned with himself—because that would make this a hell of a lot easier.

“Oh, don’t look so glum, Griff. You did it.” Freddie zips her purse. “The tour’s nearly over. We have good things in our future, so cheer up.”

Griff looks at the ground, numb. Cheer. Right. It’s gonna be a cold day in hell before he feels any of that again.

Freddie takes three strides toward the exit, then emits a great, sucking gasp.

Griff raises his face. To his horror, he sees Alabama stepping out of the shadows, the sheet music for “Find You Again” clenched in her hand.

He stiffens, his heart pounding hard.

Alabama, her face a mask of anger, gives Freddie a scorching glare that has her scuttling. The faint click-clack of her heels sounds across the cement as she makes a hasty exit.

Then, Alabama lasers her gaze to Griff, and he knows without a doubt that she’s heard everything. She’s heard the absolute worst.