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mash tun a vessel where the mash is turned to gelatin and sweetened

THE BUS sat idling at the campground entrance like a patient animal. I hurried down the gravel path, my tour guide shirt already sticking to my back in the humid air.

"Morning," Jett said as I climbed aboard. His jaw looked tighter than normal, and he avoided eye contact as I fumbled for my balance.

"Sorry I'm—" I stopped mid-sentence.

Naomi sat in the front seat, perfectly composed despite the early hour. Since it seemed unlikely Jett had picked her up at the tour office, it appeared they'd had breakfast.

At Jett's place.

Which their body language confirmed.

"You live here at the campground?" Naomi asked with a shocked expression. "Do you sleep in a tent?"

I lifted my chin. "In my van, actually." The words came out more defensively than I'd intended.

Jett's eyes met mine, reflecting surprise. "I thought you were staying here with family."

"Nope. Just me." I made my way toward the back of the bus. "No family."

The corporate group that joined us was pleasant but unremarkable—nine employees from a local insurance company. They asked standard questions about aging processes and production volumes while I went through the motions of my tour narrative, my mind elsewhere.

At Goldenrod, while the corporate group followed their guided tour through the production floor, I found myself drifting toward the tasting room bar.

Dylan looked up from polishing glasses, his face brightening when he saw me. "Well, if it isn't my favorite tour guide."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," I said, settling onto a barstool that creaked softly under my weight.

"Lemonade?" He was already reaching for a glass, ice cubes clinking as he filled it from a pitcher beaded with condensation.

"You remembered."

"Hard to forget someone who appreciates proper lemonade." He slid the glass across the bar, our fingers brushing briefly as I took it. "How's the tour business treating you?"

"Can't complain. What about you? Still working toward that bourbon empire?"

Dylan laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. "Getting there. I'm actually in an MBA program at U of L—trying to combine my chemistry background with business skills."

"Chemistry? That's impressive."

"My undergrad degree. Figured if I'm going to work in distilling, I should understand the science behind it." He leaned against the bar, rolling his sleeves higher. "This industry runs in my family. My grandfather on my mother's side was one of Goldenrod's original founders."

"Really?"

"Started working in the warehouse when I was sixteen, summers and weekends. Learned the business from the ground up." His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. "What about you? What's your background?"

I squirmed. "Just a few community college credits. Had to drop out because of family commitments."

"What kind of commitments?"

I traced patterns in the condensation on my glass. "My mother was sick. Cancer. I took care of her until..." I trailed off.

Dylan's expression softened immediately. "I'm so sorry. That must have been incredibly difficult."

"It was." The simple acknowledgment touched something raw in my chest. "But she was all I had, so..."

"That's why you're here? Starting over?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. For a moment, the weight of the past year—the grief, the loneliness, the desperate search for connection—felt shared rather than carried alone as we continued to chat.

"Bernadette."

Jett's voice cut through the moment like a blade. I turned to find him standing at the bar entrance, his expression unreadable but his posture tense. He pointed to his watch.

My eyes flew to my own watch—I'd lost track of time.

"Everyone's waiting," Jett said.

I jumped up so quickly the barstool scraped against the floor. "I'm so sorry, I—" I looked back to Dylan as a rushed toward the exit. "Thanks for the lemonade."

Jett fell into step beside me, his long strides forcing me to hurry. "Don't make me come fetch you again."

I frowned. "Don't worry."

We reached the bus in brittle silence. The corporate group chatted obliviously while tension crackled in the space between the driver's seat and the back row where I'd taken refuge.