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mash cooker a specific heated vessel where grains and water are mixed and cooked

THE AFTERNOON sun beat down as I guided my group of twelve toward Goldenrod Distillery.

The sweet, yeasty smell of fermenting grain hung heavy around us.

My tour group—mostly middle-aged couples—chatted excitedly about the tasting room ahead, their voices mixing with the distant rumble of machinery from the production facility.

As we approached the main building, my steps slowed involuntarily. Through the large windows, I could see the familiar interior of the tasting room—exposed brick walls, copper pipes running along the ceiling, and the long oak bar where samples were poured. Behind that bar, unmistakably, was Dylan.

My stomach did a little flip. I'd been hoping he wouldn't be working today, that I could simply shepherd my group through the standard tour without the complication of seeing him again.

But there he was, his fair hair catching the light from the overhead fixtures as he polished glasses with practiced efficiency.

"Are we going inside?" asked one of the tourists, fanning herself with a brochure. "I'm about to melt out here."

"Of course," I said, forcing myself forward. "The tasting room is beautifully air-conditioned."

The cool air hit us like a blessing as we entered, and I hung back near the entrance while my group spread out along the bar. The familiar scents enveloped me—aged wood, vanilla from the bourbon barrels, and something indefinably warm that I'd come to associate with these old distilleries.

Dylan's head turned at the sound of our entrance, and when his eyes found mine across the room, his face broke into that easy grin of his. He raised his hand in a wave, beckoning me over.

I approached the bar with what I hoped looked like casual confidence, though I could feel heat rising in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the summer weather outside.

"Bernadette! Good to see you again." He gestured to an attractive woman seated at the bar—probably in her mid-fifties, with white-blonde hair and wearing a crisp white blouse that somehow managed to look fresh despite the heat.

"Mom, I'd like you to meet Bernadette. She's the tour guide I told you about. Bernadette, this is my mom, Jessica."

I was instantly anxious, but Jessica offered a welcoming smile that reminded me of her son.

"How nice to meet you," she said, extending her hand.

I put my hand in hers. "Nice to meet you," I murmured. Her grip was firm and confident.

"How are you finding the tour guide work?"

"I'm still learning," I admitted, grateful for her genuine interest. "But so far, it's interesting and challenging."

"I used to give tours myself when I was learning the business," she said.

"I understand your father cofounded Goldenrod," I said.

She smiled. "That's right. And if everything goes as planned, Dylan will someday be the master distiller."

He smiled at his mother with genuine affection.

When one of my customers waved to get my attention, I excused myself to answer questions.

But my gaze kept going back to Dylan and his mother.

I was fascinated by this family dynamic of power and wealth being handed down.

It was the kind of parent-child relationship I'd never had, but I longed to experience, if only by association.