Page 4 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
"This is where it all begins," Dylan explained, his hand resting lightly on my lower back as he guided me between the tanks. The touch was casual, professional, but it sent warmth spreading through my chest. "Corn, rye, wheat, and malted barley, all cooking together to create liquid gold."
The aging warehouses were cathedral-like in their vastness, with rows upon rows of charred oak barrels stretching up into shadowy rafters. The scent here was deeper, more complex—vanilla and caramel and something indefinably woody.
"Some of these barrels have been aging for fifteen years," Dylan said, running his hand along the smooth curve of oak. "Just sitting here, slowly transforming. The wood breathing, the bourbon changing color and flavor with every season."
Finally, he led me to a private tasting room—a small, intimate space with leather chairs and walls lined with rare bottles.
"Now," Dylan said, pulling out a chair for me at a small round table, "time for your education to begin. Though I have to ask—what's your experience with bourbon?"
Heat crept up my neck. "I've... well, I've never actually tasted it."
Dylan's laugh was rich and delighted, filling the small room with warmth. "You're giving bourbon tours and you've never tasted bourbon? That's either very brave or very foolish."
"Probably foolish," I admitted.
"Well, then. Time for a proper introduction." He selected three bottles from a shelf, handling each with reverence. "We'll start gentle and work our way up."
The first pour was pale gold in a heavy crystal glass that felt substantial in my hands. Dylan sat across from me, his eyes bright with anticipation.
"Just a small sip first," he instructed, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. "Let it sit on your tongue, breathe through your nose."
The liquid burned at first, then bloomed into unexpected sweetness—honey and vanilla with undertones I couldn't identify. Dylan watched my face intently, and I found myself lost in the intensity of his gaze.
"What do you taste?" he asked softly.
"Sweetness," I said, taking another careful sip. "And something... spicy? At the end?"
"That's the rye," he said, leaning closer. "This is our entry-level bourbon, aged four years. My grandfather's original recipe."
The second pour was darker, richer, with flavors that seemed to unfold in waves across my palate. Dylan's descriptions were like poetry—notes of dried fruit and dark chocolate, the whisper of smoke from charred oak, the lingering warmth of Kentucky sunshine captured in liquid form.
By the third glass, I was amazed to discover I could actually detect the subtle differences he described. The interplay of grain and wood, the way time had transformed simple ingredients into something complex and beautiful.
"You have a natural palate," Dylan said, his voice warm with approval. "Most people can't distinguish between bourbons this easily."
Our conversation flowed as smoothly as the whiskey, touching on family traditions, the artistry of distillation, the patience required to create something truly exceptional. The afternoon light shifted and deepened around us, but I barely noticed the passage of time.
"This has been wonderful," I said at the end.
"I'll walk you to your car," he offered.
"No!" I blurted, then gave a little laugh. "I… want to do some shopping before I leave."
"Okay," he said easily. "See you soon?"
I nodded. For a second, I thought he might kiss me. Instead, he reached forward and squeezed my hand.
"I'm already looking forward to it," he said.
I walked slowly back toward my hidden van, feeling intensely aware of the breeze, the birdsong, the sun on my face. I wasn't tipsy from the bourbon. I was under the influence of something more potent—the heady rush of genuine connection, the intoxicating possibility that someone like Dylan could be interested in someone like me.
August 5, Tuesday
open fermentera fermentation tank without a sealed top, allowing natural airflow
THE PHONErang four times before Suzy answered, slightly breathless as if she'd been rushing to catch the call.
"Hello?"
