Page 25 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
"You really love it here, don't you?"
"Born and raised," he said simply. "Can't imagine living anywhere else."
On the drive back, autumn's chill seeping through the truck windows, I found myself studying his profile in the dashboard's glow. "You seem to know about every festival and event within a hundred miles."
"Occupational hazard of the tourism business." He paused, then added, "Actually, I've been thinking about expanding. With Marv's tour operation struggling, I've been wondering about hosting events at the farm. Agritourism is growing, and I've got the space."
"What kind of events?"
"Maybe honey tastings? Educational tours about bee behavior and pollination?" He glanced at me quickly. "Think people would be interested in that?"
"Are you kidding? That's brilliant." Ideas began percolating in my mind. "You could do seasonal themes—spring wildflower honey, summer clover, fall apple blossom. Maybe pair them with local cheeses or bourbon cocktails made with your honey."
"You want to help me plan it? Maybe come over, say, Tuesday and we can brainstorm?"
"Absolutely." The word came out faster than I'd intended, carried on a wave of genuine excitement.
As we drove through the darkness, past sleeping farms and moonlit pastures, I found myself thinking about college catalogs and degree programs. For the first time in months, the future felt like something I could actively shape rather than something that simply happened to me.
I studied Jett's hands on the steering wheel, the concentration on his face as he navigated the winding roads, the easy way he'd included me in his evening plans. When exactly had I started looking forward to his presence? When had his smile begun to feel like coming home?
September 28, Sunday
tails cutthe point where hearts end and tails begin
THE GOLDENhour light poured through Goldenrod's windows as I pushed through the heavy entrance doors, the familiar scents of vanilla and charred oak wrapping around me like a welcome. Dylan waited by the bar, his face lighting up when he spotted me crossing the empty tasting room.
"Perfect timing," he said, moving toward me. "I've got something special planned for tonight."
He led me deeper into the distillery than I'd ever been, past the production areas to a small, intimate tasting room I hadn't known existed. Rich mahogany paneling lined the walls, and soft lamplight cast everything in warm amber tones. The air here was thick with the concentrated essence of aging bourbon, so potent I could almost taste it.
"This is where my grandfather used to bring special guests," Dylan said, his voice carrying reverence as he ran his hand along the polished wood table. "Three generations of master distillers have made their most important decisions in this room."
I watched him move with practiced precision as he selected a bottle from a locked cabinet, his movements careful and deliberate. Everything about Dylan spoke of someone who'd found his calling—the way his eyes lit up when he talked about mash bills, how his voice dropped to almost a whisper when he described the alchemy of grain and time.
"This is from a single barrel, aged fifteen years," he said, pouring the dark amber liquid into crystal glasses that caught the lamplight. "Only two hundred bottles in existence."
The bourbon was liquid silk on my tongue, complex layers revealing themselves with each sip—leather and tobacco, driedfruits, something floral that might have been honeysuckle. I closed my eyes, letting the flavors unfold across my palate.
"Incredible," I murmured, opening my eyes to find Dylan watching me intently. "There's something almost... smoky? But not wood smoke."
"Toasted marshmallow," he said, his voice warm with approval. "Most people miss that completely. You really do have a remarkable palate."
The praise made my cheeks warm, but something in his expression had shifted, become more serious.
"Bernadette," he said softly, setting down his glass and leaning closer. "You're special. I think about you all the time when you're not here. But I feel like you're holding something back from me."
My pulse quickened as he reached across the table to cover my hand with his. His fingers were warm, slightly rough from working with barrels and equipment.
"Is there someone else?" he asked. "Jett, maybe?"
"No," I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "It's just... your sister doesn't exactly approve of us seeing each other."
Dylan's expression darkened. "Ignore Portia. She went through a messy breakup a few months ago and she's taking it out on everyone. She doesn't want anyone to be happy right now."
The bourbon had loosened something inside me, dissolved the careful barriers I usually maintained. When Dylan stood and moved around the table, when he cupped my face in his hands, I didn't pull away.
"You're beautiful," he whispered against my lips, and then we were kissing with urgency.
