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cooker a large vessel used to heat the mash and turn starches into gelatins

The Wednesday tour felt like performing for an empty theater. Only three customers had signed up—a retired couple from Indiana and their friend. The bus felt cavernous and quiet as we rolled through the countryside, my voice echoing strangely in the mostly empty space.

"Is it usually this slow?" I asked Jett.

He nodded. "Marv let things go after the divorce. Bookings are way down. Our online reviews are terrible. I keep hoping he'll bounce back."

I hoped so too. I was counting on customer tips to get by.

At Woodford Reserve, our small group got lost among the larger tour crowds. At Wild Turkey, we finished the tasting in half the usual time. By the time we reached Goldenrod, a boutique distillery tucked into a converted tobacco barn, I was ready for the day to end.

The tasting room at Goldenrod buzzed with energy despite the intimate size. Exposed wooden beams stretched overhead, and mason jar lights cast a warm amber glow over reclaimed wood tables. The bar dominated one wall, crafted from a single massive oak slab that gleamed with layers of careful finish.

Behind the bar stood a young man who looked like he'd stepped out of a craft cocktail magazine—dark blond hair swept back, crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, tanned forearms. He moved with the fluid confidence of someone who'd found his calling, shaking a cocktail with theatrical flair for a group of women at the far end of the bar.

"Welcome to Goldenrod," he said as my small group approached. His smile was genuine, reaching green eyes that sparkled with mischief. "I'm Dylan. What can I start you folks with?"

While he guided my tourists through their flight selections, I hung back, pretending to study the framed photographs lining the walls—images of the distillery's transformation.

"And what about you?" Dylan's voice made me turn. He was looking directly at me, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

"Oh, I'm working. Tour guide."

"Even tour guides need refreshment." He was already reaching for a glass. "How about some fresh lemonade?"

I relented with a nod. The lemonade was tart and sweet.

"Better?" Dylan asked, leaning against the bar with casual grace.

"Much. Thank you."

"What's your name?"

"Bernadette."

"Nice name."

He was flirting… and I liked it. "So how long have you been bartending?"

"A couple of years. I'm studying for my bourbon certification, working toward becoming a brand ambassador someday.

Maybe even master distiller if I'm lucky.

" He strained the golden liquid into a coupe glass and garnished it with an orange peel before passing it to a waiting customer.

"What about you? How'd you end up giving bourbon tours? "

"Needed a job. Ended up here."

"That simple?"

"That simple."

He studied my face like he was reading ingredients on a bottle label. "I don't buy it. Nobody just 'ends up' in Kentucky giving bourbon tours. There's always a story."

Before I could respond, the Indiana couple approached the bar, ready to head back to the bus. I drained my lemonade and stood. "Thanks for the drink."

"Hey," Dylan called. "I'm taking my break. Mind if I walk you out?"

Outside, the late afternoon air hung thick with humidity and the sweet smell of fermenting grain from the nearby rickhouses. Dylan walked beside me to where Jett waited with the bus, hands in his pockets.

"Hey, Jett," Dylan said.

"Dylan," Jett responded with a nod.

"Stop by again sometime," Dylan said to me as I climbed the bus steps. "I'll make you a proper bourbon cocktail when you're not working."

"I might do that."

Jett climbed in behind me, closed the door, and set the bus into motion.

"Making friends?" he asked dryly.

I settled into my seat and ignored the question, watching Goldenrod disappear behind us as we headed toward our final stop. The memory of Dylan's easy smile lingered, along with the unexpected warmth of finding someone who seemed genuinely interested in conversation… and in me.