Page 10 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
"I don't know," I admitted. "I honestly don't know."
September 10, Wednesday
foreshotsthe first portion of distillate, often containing undesirable compounds
THE TOURbus hummed with celebratory energy as our group of four friends from Atlanta chattered excitedly about their milestone birthday adventure. They'd coordinated matching T-shirts that proclaimed "Fabulous at Forty" in glittering letters, and their infectious laughter had made the morning's distillery stops feel more like a party than work.
"This is the best birthday celebration we've ever planned," announced Jennifer, the apparent ringleader of the group, as we approached Goldenrod Distillery. "Who knew turning forty could be this much fun?"
Her friends whooped their agreement, but my stomach twisted with anxiety that had nothing to do with their enthusiasm. Dylan was back from Texas. I'd seen the Goldenrod social media posts yesterday announcing his return, complete with photos of him looking tanned and relaxed beside traditional mesquite aging barrels.
Portia's cutting words from weeks ago echoed in my mind. When the rustic facade of the distillery came into view, I felt my pulse quicken with a mixture of anticipation and dread. What if two weeks in Texas had indeed given Dylan clarity about how inappropriate our connection really was?
"Aren't we going inside?" asked one of the birthday celebrants as I lingered by the bus entrance, suddenly reluctant to face whatever waited in the tasting room.
"Of course," I managed, forcing my feet forward through the heavy wooden doors.
The interior buzzed with afternoon activity. Tourists sampled flights presented on oak boards and clinked glasses in camaraderie. And there, behind the polished bar, stood Dylan.
The sight of him made my breath catch. His hair was lighter from the Texas sun, his skin golden with a tan that made his green eyes even more striking. He wore a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that looked stronger than I remembered.
When his gaze found mine across the crowded room, his face transformed with unguarded joy.
"Bernadette!" He abandoned the bottles he'd been arranging and moved toward me with obvious delight. I exhaled in relief.
"Welcome back," I said, trying to sound casual while my heart hammered against my ribs. "How was Texas?"
"Educational. Inspiring. But I missed Kentucky." His voice dropped slightly, taking on an intimacy that made the bustling tasting room fade around us. "I missed you."
Heat flooded my cheeks as my Atlanta birthday group exchanged knowing glances and giggled like teenagers.
"Same," I managed.
"Are you free Friday evening? Bourbon & Beyond is this weekend, and I have tickets. Music, bourbon, great food—wanna come with?"
"I'd love to," I heard myself say, the words tumbling out before my insecurities could sabotage them.
His grin widened. "Perfect. I'll pick you up."
"No," I said quickly. "I'll drive back and meet you."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely," I said, nodding. I wasn't ready to let Dylan in on my living situation.
"Okay," he relented. "I can't wait." His gaze warmed with desire.
"Me either," I murmured.
My elated mood lingered until I climbed back aboard the bus. Jett immediately noticed the transformation.
"Let me guess—loverboy's back from Texas?"
"Dylan is back, yes," I said, unable to suppress a smile.
But my euphoria evaporated when my phone buzzed with an incoming text as we merged onto the highway back to Lexington. Sam Church's name appeared on the screen, and his message made my stomach clench with anxiety:
Bought the paternity test. Can you come tomorrow at 2 PM to take it? If you don't show up, I'll assume you changed your mind.
