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mash bill the specific recipe or ratio of grains used in bourbon production

I WOKE up with butterflies doing acrobatics in my stomach.

First day jitters hit me harder than I'd expected as I pulled on my nicest jeans and the company polo shirt Marv had given me.

I studied my reflection in the cloudy mirror in the shower house.

The burgundy color made me look jaundiced—great.

The extra volume was too much to tuck into my jeans, so I tied a knot at the hem on one side.

I fluffed my fine hair as much as I could and pinched my cheeks to add some color to my face.

It would have to do. After filling a mug with hot water, I shouldered my duffel bag and walked back to my van to make instant coffee.

I dropped my bag, then headed to the entrance of the campground.

It was already warm and muggy. I hoped I'd applied enough deodorant.

I'd barely taken two drinks of my liquid breakfast when I heard the rumble of a big engine.

The short white bus sported "Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours" painted on the side in burgundy letters that didn't quite line up.

The bus stopped and the door opened, revealing a man behind the wheel who surpassed Marv's brief "great guy" assessment.

Jett Flannery looked to be in his early thirties, with dark hair that defied whatever product he'd used to smooth it down and the kind of rugged good looks featured on the covers of romance novels my mother used to read.

He was solidly built, with broad shoulders and strong arms that suggested actual physical work versus a gym membership.

He wore dark jeans, a red company shirt that fit him considerably better than mine fit me, and low-heeled black boots that had seen some miles.

"You must be the new victim," he said as I climbed aboard, his voice carrying a hint of amusement that immediately rubbed me wrong.

"Bernadette Waters," I replied.

"Jett Flannery. Hope you last longer than the previous three casualties." He closed the door and shifted into gear. "Though honestly, the odds aren't in your favor."

I swung into the seat behind him. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow raised. "Just being realistic. Fair warning though—you better be a fast learner because Marv couldn't guide tourists to a bathroom if it had neon signs and a marching band."

I wanted to defend Marv, but something in Jett's tone suggested he wasn't exaggerating.

On the short drive to the strip mall office, we maintained a silence that confirmed Jett's estimation that I wouldn't last long enough to make it worth getting to know me.

I surveyed him under my lashes as he drummed his fingers to the beat of a country song on the radio. As if a guy who looked like that would want to get to know me .

We pulled up to the strip mall office where ten customers were already gathered—a mix of family and friends celebrating Independence Day. Marv emerged from the office looking hot and bothered, clutching a clipboard and a microphone.

Ugh, I would have to use a microphone?

I should've mentioned earlier that I have three phobias—heights, bees, and public speaking. (I know, I know.)

Marv shepherded everyone onto the bus, then sat down next to me.

"Ready to see a pro in action?"

"Ready," I said.

Jett caught my gaze in the mirror, then pulled his hand across his mouth and shifted the bus into gear.

Five minutes into our trip, I understood exactly what Jett had meant.

Marv was painful to watch as he stood to engage the tourists in small talk and pass the time to our first destination.

He stumbled through his welcome and his spiel about the growth of the bourbon industry, constantly backtracking to correct himself.

His attempts at humor didn't land at all .

When he tried to explain the difference between bourbon and whiskey, he got so tangled up in his own words that customers started talking amongst themselves.

The worst moment came when Marv asked a woman for her name.

"Teresa," she replied cheerfully.

Marv's face crumpled. "That's my wife's name. I mean, ex wife." His eyes filled with tears and the entire bus fell silent except for the awkward clearing of throats.

I caught Jett's eye in the mirror. He gave a little head shake.

Taking a deep breath, I stood up and gently extracted the microphone from Marv's trembling grip.

"Well, Teresa, you picked a beautiful day for bourbon tasting," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "Is this your first time?"

She admitted it was, that she wasn't really much of a bourbon drinker.

"So you're bourbon curious?" I asked, and everyone laughed.

I rambled through what I remembered from my hasty research on my phone the night before, about the difference between bourbon and whiskey and the legal requirement for calling a product "bourbon" and how Kentucky had capitalized on the making of bourbon much like the area of Champagne, France had capitalized on the exclusive production of champagne.

The customers seemed engaged, and I found myself relaxing.

When I ran out of things to talk about, I invited two veteran bourbon drinkers to fill in with their experiences.

At the distilleries and tasting rooms, the bulk of the job seemed to be herding everyone to the right place and keeping them on schedule—each stop had its own guide to ensure the experience was entertaining.

I spent my time soaking up all the history I could and taking in the free displays.

Marv greeted people working at the different places we visited, but he seemed subdued. Jett stayed with the bus.

By the time we were heading home, Marv had yielded the tour to me completely. He sat in his seat looking defeated, occasionally nodding when I glanced his way for confirmation of a detail.

When we dropped Marv and the customers at the office, the tip jar was full. Marv turned to me. "I can ride along again tomorrow if you think you need another lesson or two."

Jett coughed.

"That's up to you, Marv," I said. "But I think I'm getting the hang of it."

He nodded. "Like I said, you're gonna fit in just fine around here."

On the short drive back to the campground, I could feel Jett's eyes on me as I counted the tip money. He probably thought I was going to cheat him out of his half.

When he pulled the bus to a stop just inside the campground, I pushed to my feet and handed him his cut. "Same time tomorrow?"

He took the cash, then nodded and opened the door.

I jumped down the steps.

"Hey… Bernadette."

I stopped and turned back to find him surveying me. "You might actually survive this job."

"Gee, thanks."

"Most people would've let Marv crash and burn. You stepped up." He paused. "Course, that might just mean you're too nice for your own good."

The door closed before I could respond.

As the bus pulled away, I walked to my van wondering what to make of Jett Flannery. Was he friend… or foe?