Page 12 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
"It could always be better. But it's steady and—"
"Dylan!"
A melodic voice cut through my nervous rambling, and I turned to see the blonde from the other day gliding toward the bar. She wore a blue sundress that perfectly complemented her golden hair. And she radiated with the self-assurance of always being the most attractive person in the room.
She leaned across the bar and planted a kiss on Dylan's cheek, her hand resting on his arm with casual intimacy.
"Portia," Dylan said with obvious affection, "This is Bernadette. She's the tour guide I told you about. Bernadette, this is my sister Portia—she works with Mom in marketing."
Sister. The word hit me like a physical blow, and heat flooded my cheeks as I realized how completely I'd misread the situation.
"Nice to meet you," I managed, extending my hand across the bar.
Portia's handshake was brief and cool. Her gaze lingered on my oversized burgundy company polo shirt.
"How interesting," she said, her tone polite but distant. "I love meeting the people who represent our industry to visitors. It's so important to make the right impression, don't you think?"
The comment felt loaded. "Absolutely," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Well, I should get back to work," Portia announced, her smile never wavering. "Dylan, don't forget about dinner Sunday. Mom's expecting you." She gave me another cool once-over. "Nice meeting you, Bernadette."
After she left, I looked back to Dylan. "I failed her test, didn't I?"
"Don't say that. Portia's not a bad person, just a little protective of me."
I nodded, then conjured up a smile. "I should get going."
"Already? You just got here."
"I need to do some things before the tour resumes. Thanks for the lemonade."
As I walked back to the bus, Portia's cool appraisal echoed in my mind. She'd seen what everyone else probably saw when they looked at me—a girl in an ill-fitting shirt who had no business entertaining romantic notions about someone like Dylan. The truth stung, but perhaps it was better to face it now than later.
August 14, Thursday
alcohol by volume (ABV)the percentage of alcohol in the distiller’s beer
THE AFTERNOONsun streamed through the van's open door as Poppy and I worked inside the cramped but increasingly organized space. She knelt on the floor, carefully peeling the backing off adhesive LED strips while I held the small lights in position beneath the newly installed cabinets. The van smelled of wood mixed with the lingering aroma of the peanut butter sandwiches we'd shared for lunch.
"A little more to the left," Poppy instructed, her tongue poking out in concentration. "Now press it down really hard so it sticks."
The LED strips cast a warm, even glow across the workspace, transforming the previously dark corner into something that resembled a functional office area. The effect was surprisingly dramatic—what had felt like living inside a cardboard box now had the cozy ambiance of a tiny studio apartment.
"This is so cool," Poppy breathed. "It's like a real house now."
I laughed. "Well, not quite, but it's an improvement."
Next, we tackled hanging the cork bulletin board above the fold-down desk. The board fit perfectly in the space we'd measured, and I felt a surge of satisfaction as we stepped back to admire our work.
"Now for the fun part," I said, retrieving the laminated map of Kentucky from my supply box. The colored pushpins caught the LED light as I began repositioning them—red for major commercial distilleries, blue for craft operations, green for historic sites, yellow for places I'd researched but never visited.
A movement outside caught my eye, and I glanced through the van's window to see a young woman walking past with a laundry basket balanced on her hip. She looked very young—fifteen?—with intricate tattoos covering both arms and dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her clothes were rumpled and worn, and there was something about her posture—shoulders hunched, eyes fixed straight ahead—that spoke of someone trying to remain invisible.
I lifted my hand in a friendly wave, but the woman's response was a cold glare. She continued past without breaking stride, her flip-flops slapping against the gravel path.
"Who was that?" I asked Poppy, who craned to get a better view out the back window.
"That's Marilyn. She's been here maybe a week, staying in that beat-up tent by the shower house. Mom and Dad told me to stay away from her—she doesn't talk to anyone and kind of gives everyone the creeps."
