Page 1 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

fermentation the process where yeast converts sugars in the mash into alcohol and carbon dioxide

THE BUS engine hummed beneath me as we rolled through the humid Kentucky morning, but my mind was still trapped in last night's moment of panic.

The Red Pegasus bar flickered behind my closed eyelids—Keith Banyon's surprised recognition, his easy smile, the way he'd said my mother's name like he was pulling up a fond memory from deep storage.

And then I'd bolted like a spooked horse.

One minute I was sitting there, heart hammering against my ribs as he studied my mother's photograph with growing recognition. The next, I was mumbling some excuse about being late for something and sprinting for the exit, leaving him standing there, looking confused.

Smooth, Bernadette. Real smooth.

I shifted in my seat behind Jett, the vinyl sticky against my legs despite the air conditioning.

Today's group was a family reunion from Ohio—three generations of Millers celebrating their grandmother's eightieth birthday.

They chattered excitedly about bourbon tastings and taking pictures, their voices blending into white noise as my thoughts churned.

When I thought no one was looking, I slipped the blurred photograph Suzy had given me from my purse, holding it low against my thigh.

The image was frustratingly unclear—a tall figure at the edge of a group shot, features obscured by poor lighting and camera shake.

It could be Keith. The build seemed right, the height matched.

But it could also be half the men in Kentucky, for all the detail I could make out.

I traced the outline of the figure with my fingertip, willing the pixels to sharpen into certainty.

"Bernadette?" Jett's voice cut through my spiral of thoughts. "Mrs. Miller has a question about barrel aging."

I blinked, suddenly aware that an elderly woman in a purple tracksuit was looking at me expectantly. The photograph crumpled slightly in my hasty attempt to fold it back into my purse. Heat crept up my neck as I realized I'd completely missed whatever she'd asked.

"I'm sorry," I said, forcing my voice into its practiced tour guide cadence. "Could you repeat the question?"

"I was wondering about the climate in those big warehouses," Mrs. Miller said kindly. "Do they control the temperature, or does Mother Nature do all the work?"

I gave myself a mental shake, pushing away thoughts of Keith Banyon.

"Actually, that's one of the fascinating things about bourbon aging," I began, my voice gaining strength as I fell back into familiar territory.

"The warehouses aren't climate-controlled at all.

The bourbon experiences Kentucky's full range of temperatures—blazing summers that can reach over a hundred degrees in the upper floors, and frigid winters that might drop below freezing. "

The explanation flowed automatically, muscle memory taking over while my brain remained fragmented. I talked about how the wood expanded and contracted with the temperature changes, how the bourbon moved in and out of the char like breathing, how the angel's share increased in the summer heat.

Mrs. Miller nodded appreciatively, and her family members peppered me with follow-up questions that I answered on autopilot. But I could feel Jett's eyes on me in the rearview mirror, studying my face with quiet intensity.

When we stopped at Woodford Reserve and the group filed off for their guided tour, Jett lingered by the bus door.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice casual but his gaze sharp. "You seem distracted today."

"I'm fine," I said quickly, gathering my notes and water bottle with unnecessary efficiency. The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but what was I supposed to say? That I'd spent months searching for my father only to run away the moment I might have found him?

Jett's expression suggested he didn't believe me, but he didn't push. "Alright. Just checking."

As I followed the group toward the visitor center, the August sun beat down on my shoulders like a physical weight.

Sweat beaded along my hairline, and the pendant around my neck felt hot against my skin.

My mother's young face smiled up from the silver oval, frozen in a moment of happiness I'd never witnessed in person.

What would she want me to do? Would she be proud of my search, or horrified that I was stirring up a past she'd chosen to leave buried?

The truth was, I wasn't fine. I was a complete mess, caught between the desperate need to know and the terrifying possibility of actually finding out.

For months, the search had been theoretical—a mystery to solve, a puzzle to piece together.

But Keith Banyon had made it real, immediate, unavoidable.

And I had absolutely no idea what to do next.