Page 3 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
"And the people?"
"Very welcoming. There's a warmth here that I wasn't expecting." I thought of the Oneys, of Marv's awkward kindness, even of Dylan's easy charm. "Everyone's been so generous with their time and stories to help me learn my job."
Naomi nodded. "That matches what I've been finding for my article. There's definitely something special about Southern hospitality." She paused, studying me with journalist's eyes. "But how's van life? Don't you miss the creature comforts—long hot showers, central air conditioning, a real bed?"
The questions felt pointed, as if she was trying to understand what kind of person would choose such a lifestyle. I caught Jett's eyes in the rearview mirror for just a moment before he looked away.
"I look at it as an adventure," I said carefully. "There's something freeing about carrying everything you need with you. And the campground has good facilities—hot showers, Wi-Fi, a real sense of community among the other campers."
"What does your family think about it?" Naomi pressed, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. "Are they worried about you living on the road like this?"
The question hit like a punch to the solar plexus. I felt heat rise in my cheeks as I scrambled for an answer that wouldn't reveal too much. "They're... supportive of me finding my own path."
It wasn't technically a lie, since there was no family to have opinions one way or another.
"Oh, I love your necklace," Naomi said suddenly, her attention shifting to the pendant resting against my collarbone. "Is that a photograph? How unique."
My hand moved instinctively to cover the silver oval, but it was too late. "Yes, it's... it's my mother."
"She's lovely. Recent photo?"
"No, this was taken before I was born." The words felt thick in my throat. "She passed away recently."
The bus went quiet except for the rumble of the engine. I could see Jett's hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel, and when I glanced up, his eyes met mine in the rearview mirror with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"I'm so sorry," Naomi said softly, her voice losing some of its bright journalist edge. "That must be incredibly difficult."
"I think camping sounds fun," Jett spoke up suddenly, his voice carrying a wistful note that seemed to come from nowhere. "Some of my best childhood memories are camping trips with my brothers. Building fires, sleeping under the stars, waking up to the sound of birds instead of alarm clocks."
I realized he was changing the subject, steering us away from the minefield of my grief, and I felt a stab of gratitude.
"I should do it again sometime," he continued, adjusting the rearview mirror. "Get back to basics."
Naomi laughed, the sound bright and musical in the confined space of the bus. "Well, if you're planning any camping adventures, don't expect me to tag along."
Instead of responding, Jett turned to greet a customer as they climbed aboard. I did the same, then stared out the window at dark clouds gathering on the horizon, wondering if the approaching storm would match the one I felt brewing inside my chest.
August 4, Monday
distiller’s beerthe low-alcohol liquid resulting from fermentation, typically around 8–10% alcohol by volume
I PARKEDGinger in a parking lot nearly a quarter mile from Goldenrod Distillery, close enough to walk but far enough that Dylan wouldn't catch sight of my rust-spotted, dented home on wheels. The morning sun filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across the van's faded orange paint, and I took a moment to check my reflection in the side mirror.
I'd chosen my outfit carefully—dark jeans, a soft blue blouse, and the silver pendant with my mother's photograph nestled against my collarbone. My hair had cooperated for once, falling in loose waves around my shoulders instead of its usual frizz.
The walk to the distillery gave me time to steady my nerves. The air was thick with humidity and the sweet, yeasty scent of fermenting grain that had become as recognizable as morning coffee.
Dylan was waiting by the main entrance, and the sight of him made my steps falter slightly. He wore dark jeans that looked expensive, a crisp white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and leather loafers without socks—the kind of casually elegant look that screamed wealth and confidence. His fair hair caught the sunlight, and when he spotted me approaching, his face broke into that easy grin that made my stomach flutter.
"Right on time," he said, stepping forward to greet me. "I was afraid you might change your mind."
"Are you kidding? I've been looking forward to this all weekend," I admitted, surprised by my own honesty.
He led me through a side entrance I'd never seen before, producing a key card from his pocket. The interior corridors were cooler and dimmer than the public areas, with exposed brick walls and the distant sound of machinery humming somewhere in the building's depths.
"Most people only see the pretty parts," Dylan said as we walked, his voice echoing slightly in the narrow hallway. "The polished tasting rooms and gift shops. But the real magic happens back here."
He showed me the mash rooms first, where enormous steel tanks bubbled and gurgled with fermenting grain. The air was thick and sweet, almost intoxicating in its richness. Steam rose from the vats like incense, and the sound of the bubbling mash was oddly hypnotic.
