Page 84 of Find You Again (Nashville Star 2)

Alabama wakes to a brutal, needling pain running down her arm. A pain that has her swearing so viciously it’d even have Griff raising a brow. As her eyes adjust, she takes in the blue moonlight streaming through the open window. The world is silent around her, the only sound the rush of the wind through the cornfield, the chirring of insects in the night.

She flinches as she adjusts her uncomfortable position. Sleeping sitting up is a pain in her ass. She eyes the nightstand, where her pain medication sits. Briefly, she considers taking another pill, but she hates the way they make her mind foggy. As she tries once again to sit up straight, she’s hit by another hiss of pain. She grabs at her throbbing arm, at the fresh bandage Griff applied hours earlier.

Breathing through the ache, she glances over, where beside her, Griff sleeps easy. He’s on his stomach, arms hooked beneath his pillow. Smiling, she reaches out, running her fingers along his spine, the curve of his muscled back. He’s so damn sexy. Her bad boy with a dirty mouth.

She closes her eyes at the rush of love swelling in her. She couldn’t do this without him.

She knows she could wake Griff, have him help her into a more comfortable sleeping position, but she wants to let him rest. He’s been fussing all day, settling them in, helping her in and out of the shower, getting her dressed.

Either way, it’s too late now. She’s wide awake, restless and hurting. So much for counting sheep. Slowly, so as not to jostle her arm, she slips out of bed.

Naked, her hair trailing down her breasts, she softly pads down the hall. Between Holly and Griff’s fussing, she’s barely had time to scope out the house.

Griff’s mama’s house is as she remembers it, although it’s seen better days.

A majority of the doors are shut, like they’re trying to keep out the past. The curved banister that leads up to the second floor is shedding its paint. She picks off a few faded pink flecks with her nails. Red, she thinks. It used to be red.

Alabama drifts through the house like a ghost, taking it all in with a nostalgic eye. The under-the-stairs closet where she and Griff would sneak kisses. The round kitchen table where Mrs. Greyson would fix them peanut butter and jelly while she listened to their out-of-tune songs. The small powder room where she got her first period and Mrs. Greyson smuggled her a pad and wisely showed her the ways of a woman.

Alabama chuckles at the memory.

The house sings her a song, and she’s listening. Everything needs—no, wants—a good sanding down, a fresh coat of paint, a skilled hand.

She stops in the parlor. Slanted lines of moonlight fall through the dusty blinds, casting their beams across Alabama’s naked form. She crouches beside the record player and, one-handed, selects a record. She sets the needle down and lets it spin. She stands there in the dark and closes her eyes, listening to Patsy Cline’s melancholy melody.

As she does, tears unexpectedly fill her eyes.

She tries to stop, tries to force her gaze on the window, but she can’t bury it anymore. She hasn’t cried, hasn’t allowed herself to feel the force of her actions since she got shot.

Alabama closes her eyes. She sobs quietly, her entire body racking. Each breath she takes is a shudder that has her shoulder aching. But she embraces that pain. She could’ve died, and she didn’t. She’s still ticking and loving Griff. The thought makes her want to grab onto life with both hands. Makes her want to live to her wildest.

“Midnight stroll?”

Griff’s low growl at her back has her pulse ratcheting up several notches.

She glances over her shoulder to see him standing in the long corridor. His brow cocked, his eyes appreciative and roving.

Wiping quick at her face, she turns toward him. “Couldn’t sleep.”

At the sight of her tears, the devilish smile disappears from his face. Instantly, his eyes cloud with worry and he moves toward her, inhabiting her space in the best possible way. He’s so close she can feel the heat of his body, the concern emanating from him.

He cups her face, his rings tangling in her hair. His gaze captures hers. “What can I do?”

The question unmoors her in its sincerity, in his primal determination to give her anything she needs. “Just this,” Alabama says, slipping her good arm around his waist. His hand moves from her face to the small of her back. As they begin to sway, Griff dips his forehead to hers and closes his eyes. Slow and steady they move, the music swirling the air, their breaths like a pulse between them.

It’s quiet for so long until Griff lets out an anguished gasp. “You could have died.” The words, tortured, wrench from his lips.

Alabama leans into him, his strong body giving her the support she needs.

Finally, she speaks. “I know. But I didn’t.”

She opens her eyes, staring at him. Moonlight glances off his cheekbone, his scar, his chiseled bearded jaw, his wet eyes.

Her heart soars, content and sure.

Nothing she’s done with Griff is a mistake. She ran blind into the path of a bullet. She could have left this earth without him, taken his spot because she loved him, and she would have never regretted it.

Never.

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