Page 46 of Find You Again (Nashville Star 2)

“By the way, did you happen to see the photos?”

He grimaces. Oh yeah, he’s seen the photos. Lugging Alabama’s shopping bags around like he’s her personal fucking shopper. Still, a smile crosses his face. Yesterday—talk about a goddamn great time.

He smears a hand down his face. “You want a new pair of shoes next, Freddie?”

She chuckles. “I like this photo of you, Griff, a shopping bag in your hand. It almost makes you look ... domesticated.”

Griff clenches a fist. Freddie can give him shit all she wants but he doesn’t regret that photo for a second.

“You know who else likes you? The people. They’re connecting with you. They like you and Alabama together.”

Griff closes his eyes on her name.

Morning couldn’t have come soon enough and now that it has, she’s nowhere to be seen. He’s acting like some teenage horndog, all sweaty palms and rock-hard erections, but that’s what she’s doing to him. Making him sweat. Making him think of every single dirty thing he wants to do to her.

And Alabama, either she regrets last night, or he scared her off. He fucked up and went too fast.

His ears snag on Freddie, reading captions and quotes aloud from social media sections.

“‘Hottest country couple alive!!!’

‘Hashtag relationship goals.’

‘Love this, love their music! Here’s hoping for a collaboration ASAP!’”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to read the comments,” he says dryly. He doesn’t know the first thing about social media and couldn’t give two shits, instead letting someone in marketing run his account. Anything that would have his idols rolling over in their graves, he ain’t touching with a ten-foot pole.

“I read the comments, Griff. The label reads the comments. And they want more of this. More of you two together. Record sales of Lonestar are up, shows are selling out, which means big things.”

“What kind of big things?”

“A winter tour. They’re talking more cities, arenas, possibly even Europe.”

A swell of pride crashes over him. The one person keeping the shitshow that is Griff Greyson together. “Yeah, well,” he says, “It’s all Alabama. She’s been workin’ like hell. Singin’ her heart out every damn night.”

“Not to mention the fact that she is an absolute ratings monster,” Freddie trills. “Keep up the excellent work. It’s a fabulous act you’re pulling.”

“It ain’t no act,” he growls in a voice full of venom.

Out of everything he’s done, this is the real fucking deal.

Griff’s heart lurches when he sees Alabama. She’s exiting the writing room, eyes downcast, notebook in her hand.

“I gotta go, Fred,” he says and ends the call.

He goes to Alabama, forcing himself not to seem too eager, to play it cool, when all he can think about is last night and what happens next.

“Good mornin’, sweetheart.” He reaches for her, but Alabama steps back. She leans against her bedroom door, her hand on the knob.

He lets his hands fall to his side. “Hey, what is it?”

She swallows. “Nothin’.”

He juts his chin at the writing room. “You wanna get back in there, show me what you got?”

Suddenly, he’s hit by inspiration, a determination to crank out a true Griff Greyson number. Not that shit he’s been singing for so long. “We could work on a tune. Debut it at tonight’s show.” He grins. “Get back those two pennies we’re owed.”

“No, we can’t,” she says, her tone absentminded as she turns away from him.

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