Page 18 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
Jett grinned. "I wasn't expecting you until tonight."
"I caught an earlier flight," she said, settling into the seat directly behind him with the proprietary ease of someone claiming her territory. "I missed you too much to wait."
Their reunion felt intimate and excluding. Feeling like a voyeur, I sank lower in my seat, pretending to organize my notes.
"Hello, Naomi," Teresa gushed when she boarded the bus. "Always good to see you." When Teresa reached my seat, her smile evaporated and she whispered, "Step it up today! We need to impress her!"
Three couples followed—retirees from Tennessee celebrating their book club's annual outing—chattering excitedly about their bourbon education adventure.
"Welcome to Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours," I began, my voice strained but steady. "Today we'll explore Kentucky's liquid heritage, beginning with the pioneering distillers who—"
"Projection!" Teresa hissed. "Remember what we discussed about diaphragm breathing. And I can barely see your teeth when you smile."
The day continued in much the same pattern—Teresa's constant corrections undermining my confidence. During breaks, I watched Jett and Naomi share private conversations and casual touches that spoke of genuine intimacy, their connection evident in ways that made my own romantic complications feel shallow by comparison.
Teresa watched them, too. "Hopefully she's so taken with Jett, she'll overlook your shortcomings."
I frowned. "With all the research she's been doing, she should have enough material for a book by now."
When we returned to the tour office, Naomi remained on board, and I realized she meant to go home with Jett. So it was just the three of us when Jett turned the bus toward the campground. I sat in the back to give them privacy, although it was hard to miss their laughter. When the door opened at the campground, I grabbed my bag and called goodbye as I jumped off, but they were too engrossed in each other to acknowledge my departure.
The irony wasn't lost on me—I was irritable and lonely because of my own choices. Dylan had wanted to spend time with me. Instead, I'd panicked and lied, all because I was too ashamed of my circumstances to let him see the truth.
September 20, Saturday
spirit safealocked compartment used to view and collect distillate without contamination
THE MORNINGair carried the scent of dew-dampened grass and wood smoke from early-rising campers as I approached the tour bus, my sneakers crunching softly against the gravel path. I conjured up a smile for Jett and Naomi as I climbed aboard.
"Good morning," I offered.
"Yes it is," Naomi sang. She wore a cream-colored blouse that managed to look effortlessly elegant and her skin carried that unmistakable glow of someone who'd been thoroughly satisfied in all the ways that mattered. "Sit with us, Bernadette. I have a favor to ask you."
Her invitation felt more like a summons than a request. I settled into a seat across the aisle, close enough for conversation but far enough to maintain some emotional buffer.
"Jett was just telling me about your boyfriend," Naomi continued, her voice carrying genuine interest mixed with what sounded suspiciously like professional calculation. "Dylan Biggs from Goldenrod Distillery? His family is practically bourbon royalty."
In the rearview mirror, I caught Jett's smirk. "Don't forget to mention he's a dreamboat."
Heat crept up my neck at their casual discussion of my personal life, though I couldn't decide whether I was more embarrassed by the attention or flattered that Dylan rated as conversation-worthy.
"The Biggs family would make a perfect sidebar for my article," Naomi continued, leaning forward. "Do you think you could arrange an interview with Jessica and Boyd?"
My first instinct was to deflect, to explain that I barely knew Dylan's parents beyond polite social interactions. But something about Naomi's eager expression, combined with the way she'd effortlessly claimed territory in both Jett's life and the front of our bus, sparked a different response entirely.
"I can't make any promises, but I'll ask."
Naomi's face brightened with genuine gratitude. "That would be amazing. Thank you so much!"
As we merged into morning traffic toward our first stop, I pulled out my phone and crafted a text to Dylan:Thinking about you today. Is the distillery busy?
His response came back within seconds:Busier than normal. Miss you. How's your day going?
The simple admission made my pulse quicken with pleasure. I typed back:Professional question: I know a reporter writing an article about the bourbon industry for a Japanese magazine. She'd love to feature Goldenrod and interview your parents. Worth asking?
Of course! Let me check with Mom and get back to you ASAP. What did you do last night? Anything fun?
I stared at the question, remembering my self-imposed evening alone in my van, reading while rain drummed against the metal roof. I could have been at a concert, a restaurant, anywhere that people with normal social lives spent their Friday nights.
