Page 20 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
The Biggs family moved among their guests like royalty—Jessica charming the older generation with stories of her father's distilling innovations, Boyd discussing business with industry colleagues, Dylan and Portia working the younger crowd with jokes and laughter.
Near the evening's midpoint, Jessica called for attention, raising a crystal glass filled with amber liquid.
"Friends, family, fellow bourbon lovers," she began, her voice carrying effortlessly across the gathering. "Tonight we celebrate the release of our 2003 small-batch reserve—twenty years of patient aging in the tradition my father established over a half century ago."
The crowd murmured appreciatively as servers circulated with small glasses of the special bourbon, its aroma rich with vanilla and oak aged to perfect complexity.
Under Dylan's careful guidance, I sampled not just the reserve bourbon but an array of specialty cocktails crafted specifically for the evening—an old fashioned made with the twenty-year reserve, a mint julep that tasted like Kentucky summer captured in liquid form, and bourbon-infused chocolates that melted on my tongue with decadent richness.
"What do you think?" Dylan asked, watching my face as I tasted the reserve neat for the first time.
"It's like... liquid silk," I said, surprised by the depth of flavor I could actually detect. "Caramel and spice, but something floral too?"
"Goldenrod," he said with obvious pride. "You really do have a natural palate."
Sometime later, as the party reached its peak energy, Dylan touched my elbow gently. "Want to see something?"
He led me through a side door into a quiet hallway lined with portraits of Biggs family patriarchs, the noise of the party muffled by heavy wooden walls. Before I could ask what hewanted to show me, he'd turned and cupped my face in his hands.
"I've been wanting to do this all evening," he murmured, and then his lips found mine.
The kiss was everything I'd imagined and more—warm and thorough and tasting of bourbon and possibility. My hands found the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer as weeks of careful distance dissolved into something urgent and honest.
"Well, well," Boyd's amused voice cut through our private moment. "Don't mind me, just looking for the restroom."
We broke apart, both breathing hard. Boyd winked at us as he passed, his expression more indulgent than disapproving.
"We should probably get back," Dylan said, though his hands lingered at my waist.
As we rejoined the party, I caught sight of myself in one of the antique mirrors lining the hallway—cheeks flushed, lips slightly swollen, eyes bright.
The evening continued around us, but something fundamental had shifted. I was developing a taste for bourbon, yes—but more importantly, I was developing a taste for this version of myself.
August 24, Sunday
fermentation tank cleaningthe sanitation process between fermentation cycles to prevent contamination
THE MORNINGair carried the promise of another scorching day as I climbed aboard the tour bus, still floating on the afterglow of last night's party.
"Well, well," Jett said, studying my face in the rearview mirror as we pulled away from the campground. "Someone's in a good mood this morning. I take it the distillery event went well?"
"It was nice," I said, trying to keep my voice casual while fighting back a smile that seemed determined to take over my entire face.
"Nice," Jett repeated with obvious skepticism. "Right. And I'm sure that color in your cheeks has nothing to do with a certain bartender."
I hummed a few notes of the jazz song that had been playing when Dylan kissed me, then caught myself and tried to look serious. But the melody kept bubbling up despite my attempts to contain it.
"You're saying a lot by not saying anything," Jett observed with amusement. "Must have been some evening."
The strip mall parking lot came into view, where a small group of customers waited outside the tour office—three couples celebrating a wedding anniversary, based on the matching t-shirts that proclaimed "50 Years and Still Going Strong." They looked cheerful and ready for adventure, the kind of group that would make for an easy, enjoyable day.
I was still humming under my breath as we loaded the anniversary celebrants onto the bus, their excitement infectious as they chattered about the distilleries they'd researched and the bourbon flights they were most looking forward to trying.
My phone buzzed as we pulled out of the parking lot, Dylan's name appearing on the screen. My heart did a little skip as I answered, still warm from memories of his hands cupping my face in that quiet hallway.
"Good morning," he said. "I hope I'm not calling too early."
"Not at all. I was just thinking about last night. It was wonderful."
