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rye a grain that adds spice and dryness to the mash

THE GROUP of Japanese tourists was a refreshing change from yesterday's chaos.

Seven polite, well-dressed customers who listened intently and asked thoughtful questions instead of shrieking about photo opportunities.

Most had ties to the Toyota plant in Georgetown, their families having relocated from Japan for the automotive industry.

I marveled at what culture shock they must have experienced moving from Japan to this wild region in the foothills of the Appalachia Mountains.

They moved through our Bardstown stops with quiet reverence, treating each distillery like a sacred space.

At Willett, while the group sampled their small-batch releases, I noticed one woman hanging back, scribbling notes in a leather journal instead of participating in the tasting.

She was probably my age, with a waterfall of black hair and intelligent dark eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that somehow made her more striking.

Unlike the others who wore business casual attire, she'd dressed in dark jeans and a cream-colored blouse that looked expensive but understated.

She was stunning in an effortless way that made me conscious of my oversized polo shirt.

"Not a bourbon fan?" I asked, approaching her near the gift shop display.

She looked up and smiled, revealing perfect teeth. "Actually, I love bourbon. But I'm working." She gestured to her notebook with graceful hands. "I'm documenting everything for an article."

"Are you a journalist?"

"Freelance writer. Naomi Sook." She extended her hand with a firm grip.

"I'm writing a feature for Whisky Magazine Japan about Kentucky's bourbon tourism industry.

My editor wants to understand how Kentucky transformed whiskey production into a cultural experience that draws millions of visitors annually. "

"Is bourbon popular in Japan?"

"Incredibly popular. Japanese whiskey has exploded internationally, but we're still learning how to build the kind of tourism infrastructure Kentucky has mastered." She was polite, professional, but I could sense her attention wasn't entirely focused on our conversation.

When we boarded the bus for the next stop, I noticed she chose a seat near the front—close to Jett. I caught her studying his profile and when he adjusted the mirror to check on passengers, their eyes met briefly. She smiled, and I saw him smile back.

At Heaven Hill, during the rickhouse tour, Naomi positioned herself where she could observe both the aging barrels and Jett as he waited with the bus.

When our guide explained the angel's share—the bourbon lost to evaporation during aging—she asked thoughtful questions, but I noticed her gaze drifting toward the parking area.

"Your driver seems very knowledgeable," she mentioned to me as we walked between towering racks of barrels. "Has he been doing this long?"

"A few years, I think."

"And he's from here originally?"

The question seemed casual, but there was something pointed about it. "I'm not sure. We don't really talk much about personal things."

During the break at Barton 1792, I watched Naomi approach Jett by the bus.

She'd removed her glasses, and her hair fell in a sleek curtain as she leaned against the vehicle.

Even from a distance, I could see Jett's posture change—he was more attentive, more engaged.

They talked for several minutes. Naomi laughed at something he said, her hand briefly touching his arm.

My stomach pinged with an emotion I couldn't identify.

At My Old Kentucky Home, Naomi stuck closer to me during the tasting, asking questions about my research methods and how I'd learned so much so quickly. I assured her I had much more to learn.

During the ride back to Lexington, Naomi sat in the front seat again, this time engaging Jett in conversation about local restaurants and hidden gems around the state.

"I'll definitely be back," she announced as we pulled into the strip mall parking lot. "This story is going to require multiple visits over the next few months." She glanced toward Jett as she said it, and I caught the subtle exchange of smiles between them.

She pressed a generous tip into my hand along with her business card. "Thank you for a wonderful tour, Bernadette. You're very good at this."

The words were kind, but they felt like a polite dismissal. As she gathered her things, I heard her ask Jett about the best time to book future tours.

On the drive back to the campground, the bus felt oddly quiet after the day's energy.

"Good group today," Jett said, catching my eye in the mirror.

"Very respectful. The journalist seemed particularly interested in the industry."

"Yeah, she mentioned that. Smart woman."

"Pretty too," I added.

"So what are your plans for your days off?" he asked as we turned onto the campground entrance.

The question caught me off guard. "Oh, I have... things to do."

"Things?"

"Just, you know, settling in. Exploring the area." When he pulled in, I grabbed my bag quickly and jogged down the steps. "See you Wednesday." When he didn't open the bus door, I looked back with eyebrows raised.

Jett hesitated, then opened the bus door. "See you Wednesday."