Page 12 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
"Ma'am?" A postal worker approached with obvious concern. "Is everything alright?"
"Fine," I grunted, still fishing through garbage with single-minded intensity. "Just need to—got it!"
My fingers closed around the box, and I lifted it triumphantly. Coffee grounds clung to one corner and the prepaid shipping label was sticky, but the package was intact.
I marched to the mail drop slot and shoved the soiled test kit through the opening. It disappeared into the postal system with a decisive thump.
"There," I announced to the lobby at large, wiping my hands on my jeans. "Done."
The truth was worth more than anyone else's comfort—including my own.
September 12, Friday
heartsthe main portion of the distillation run, rich in ethanol and desired flavor compounds
THE INTERSTATEstretched ahead of me like a ribbon of possibility as I pushed Ginger harder than her aging engine probably appreciated, the speedometer needle hovering dangerously close to eighty. The evening air rushed through my cracked windows, carrying the earthy scent of farmland.
It had been a brutal day. Teresa had ridden along on our afternoon tour, her clipboard wielded like a weapon as she documented every perceived flaw in my performance, topping it off with the announcement that our most recent online reviews were "absolutely terrible" and that "drastic improvements" were needed immediately.
Jett's expression had hardened but he'd been distracted by the check engine light that kept flickering on his dashboard. When he'd dropped me at the campground, his parting words had carried an odd weight: "Have a good time at the concert, and be careful."
Now, weaving through festival traffic with other vehicles sporting out-of-state plates and bourbon-themed bumper stickers, I felt my pulse quicken with anticipation that had nothing to do with my speed. Dylan was waiting for me somewhere in this sea of music lovers and whiskey enthusiasts.
The Bourbon & Beyond festival grounds sprawled across acres of manicured park land, stages and vendor tents scattered like a temporary city. I parked Ginger between a gleaming BMW and a lifted pickup truck, her rust spots and dented bumper making her look like a wayward aunt at a family reunion.
Dylan stood exactly where he'd promised, near the main entrance beneath towering festival banners that fluttered in the evening breeze. He wore dark jeans and a charcoal button-down that made his green eyes luminous, and when he spotted me jogging toward him, his face lit up with unguarded delight.
"You made it," he said, pulling me into his arms before I could catch my breath. His lips found mine in a kiss thorough enough to make the festival crowds fade around us.
"Wouldn't miss it," I managed when we broke apart, my chest vibrating with pleasure.
But my euphoria dimmed when we arrived at the VIP section—a raised platform with cushioned seats and cocktail service that screamed wealth and privilege—and I spotted the rest of the Biggs family occupying front-row seats with the casual entitlement of people accustomed to the best of everything.
"I didn't know your family would be here," I murmured.
"Goldenrod has boxed seats," he said. "We're a sponsor."
I managed a smile when we approached. Boyd waved us over with genuine warmth, while Jessica's smile seemed more brittle than I remembered. Portia barely acknowledged my presence, her attention focused on her phone with the kind of studied indifference that spoke louder than words.
Dylan must have sensed my discomfort because he leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. "You're not dating them," he murmured, his fingers intertwining with mine. "You're dating me."
The worddatingsent a flutter through my chest. We were dating. This handsome, sophisticated man had chosen to share this experience with me.
The first act took the stage in an explosion of lights and sound—a country rock band whose energy was infectious enough to make even Portia look up from her phone. From our front-row vantage point, I could see every bead of sweat onthe lead singer's face, could feel the bass notes reverberating through my chest like a second heartbeat.
Between music acts, comedians took the stage with bourbon-infused humor that had the crowd roaring with laughter. The proximity to the performers was intoxicating—I could see the gleam in their eyes, catch the subtle gestures that television cameras would miss. I finally understood the charm of a genre that had initially confounded me.
This was the most exciting night of my life, and I was determined to savor every moment despite feeling out of place.
As the evening wound down and the final act took their bows, Dylan insisted on walking me back to the parking area. My stomach clenched as we navigated through the dispersing crowd toward where Ginger waited among the luxury vehicles like a homeless person at a charity gala.
"This is me," I said, trying to sound casual as we approached my rust-spotted van.
Dylan's eyebrows rose with what looked like genuine appreciation rather than horror. "I dig it. Vintage rides have so much more character than modern cars."
If only he knew I didn't just drive this vintage ride—I lived in it. The irony made my throat tight.
When he pulled me close for another kiss, his body warm and solid against mine, I felt my careful control begin to slip. His hands tangled in my hair, and the intoxicating taste of bourbon on his lips made my head spin with dangerous thoughts.
