Page 86 of Find You Again (Nashville Star 2)

Griff’s up before Alabama. The Texas morning brings with it a violent sunrise of red and gold. Across the field, birds chirp their melodies, the weeping willows swish in the crisp morning breeze.

He keeps quiet, drawing the curtains and dressing quickly. When he pulls a light blanket over Alabama’s body, she lets out a small moan. He gives her a long look, watching as she stirs slightly before settling back into her uncomfortable sitting-up position. He dips to kiss her brow, then silently exits the bedroom, wanting her to rest as long as she can.

He trudges to the kitchen, intent on whipping up some breakfast. Alabama’s been subsisting on junk food and Jell-O and he’s hell-bent on getting a home-cooked meal into her stomach. A low chuckle rolls out of Griff at the thought of him cooking. The last time he handled a frying pan, he was threatening to knock the block off Beau Dallas.

He stops in the middle of the kitchen and glances around. It’s sparse. A jar of honey sits on the shelf. A grocery store tray of cinnamon rolls brought over by Holly. In the fridge, bacon and a tub of butter. He’ll have to make a trip to the store later and get them all the fixings.

At least there’s coffee. While he grinds and measures the beans, the memory of last night hangs heavy in his mind. Alabama standing in the foyer wearing nothing but her long red hair. Her lips, tasting like milk and honey, her soft, needy moans, her long nails, dug deep into his shoulder, hard enough to draw blood.

A shiver runs down his spine. Fucking Christ, that X-rated look in her eyes when she takes what she wants. It’s one of the things he loves about her. That she’s unabashedly ready, willing and as able as him to call the shots.

Even though Griff can’t help but consider it his life’s mission to give Alabama anything she wants—in or out of bed.

Griff scowls at the military salute his dick’s snapped to and adjusts himself. His brain on horndog hyperspeed. Like he’s a goddamn teenager all over again.

Baseball, he thinks, letting out a rough breath to cool off. Smooth jazz. Banking statements.

As the coffee machine bubbles its last brew, his eyes brush to the doorway, watching for Alabama. He’s eager to see her. Last night was something else. The sex was different than anything he’s ever had with her. Slow, a claiming, a release. An admittance they were both lucky to be alive. He knows he loves her, has known for so damn long now, but he wants more.

He wants forever.

Griff grabs two mugs from the cabinet and by the time he’s pouring himself out a steaming cup of coffee, the scent of coconut and sunlight fills his nose. He glances up to find Alabama entering the kitchen.

He pushes his cup of coffee toward her and pours another cup for himself. “Hey, good mornin’.”

“Mornin’ to you,” she says, her drawl soft and lilting as she joins him at the counter.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, his eyes scanning her. She’s still in the silk pajama pants and yellow tank top Griff changed her into last night after their midnight meetup. Her feet are bare, her face bleary from sleep.

“Hmm. Like a robot.” Smiling, she brushes hair from her face and extends her good arm out above her head in a stretch. “How long have you been up?”

“Long enough to make coffee.”

“So the perfect amount of time.” She clasps her hand around the mug and brings it to her lips for a long sip.

“There’s no milk,” Griff offers. “Our only options for breakfast are butter or bacon. I’ll take a trip to the store later.” He makes sure to put the emphasis on him. Alabama exerting herself ain’t an option.

Alabama smiles and lifts her cup. “I don’t need anything right now, just this.” A look of warm affection crosses her gorgeous face. “Just you. C’mon. Let’s sit.”

They take their coffees and move to the small round table in the bay window nook. Alabama winces as she lowers herself into a chair, Griff’s stomach tightening at the pain in her grimace.

For a long second, she stares out the window at the dusty dirt drive, then her gaze jumps to Griff. “Have you heard anything about the tour?”

Griff shifts in the chair. “Freddie called me yesterday.”

“And you’re just now telling me this?” She raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

He sighs, unhappy with the terms Freddie’s laid down. “We got two weeks.”

“I can work with that.”

He frowns. “Al—”

“You forget I still need the money, Griff.” She looks down at her coffee, pulling the mug against her chest.

He opens his mouth to tell her he’ll write her a goddamn check right now. That he’ll do his damnedest to give her anything she needs, that her troubles are his, but then he checks himself. She’d rip up that check so fast he’d feel it in his balls. Alabama taking handouts ain’t her style.

“I know,” he says. “I just don’t like the thought of you pushin’ yourself.”

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