Page 13 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

final gravity the specific gravity reading after fermentation, used to calculate alcohol content

THE SCENT of aged oak and leather enveloped me as I pushed through Goldenrod's heavy wooden doors. My palms were damp with nervous sweat. Despite Dylan's encouraging text message, I'd spent the entire morning debating whether to stop by. In my mind I kept seeing him being cozy with the blond woman.

The tasting room hummed with afternoon activity—tourists clustered around high-top tables sampling flight boards, the gentle clink of glasses mixing with conversations about vanilla notes and finish.

Behind the polished bar, Dylan looked up from arranging bottles, and his face immediately brightened when he spotted me.

"Bernadette!" He set down the bottle he'd been holding and moved toward me with obvious pleasure. "I was starting to wonder if I'd scared you off with that private tasting."

"No, not at all," I said quickly, settling onto one of the leather bar stools. "I've just been... busy with work. My boss's, er, wife is implementing some changes."

His expression suggested he didn't entirely believe me, but he didn't push. Instead, he reached for a pitcher of lemonade, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as he poured. "Same as usual?"

"Perfect."

The lemonade was tart and sweet on my tongue, exactly as I remembered, but I found myself holding back despite Dylan's warm welcome.

"How is business?" he asked, leaning against the bar.

"It could always be better. But it's steady and—"

"Dylan!"

A melodic voice cut through my nervous rambling, and I turned to see the blonde from the other day gliding toward the bar. She wore a blue sundress that perfectly complemented her golden hair. And she radiated with the self-assurance of always being the most attractive person in the room.

She leaned across the bar and planted a kiss on Dylan's cheek, her hand resting on his arm with casual intimacy.

"Portia," Dylan said with obvious affection, "This is Bernadette. She's the tour guide I told you about. Bernadette, this is my sister Portia—she works with Mom in marketing."

Sister. The word hit me like a physical blow, and heat flooded my cheeks as I realized how completely I'd misread the situation.

"Nice to meet you," I managed, extending my hand across the bar.

Portia's handshake was brief and cool. Her gaze lingered on my oversized burgundy company polo shirt.

"How interesting," she said, her tone polite but distant. "I love meeting the people who represent our industry to visitors. It's so important to make the right impression, don't you think?"

The comment felt loaded. "Absolutely," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Well, I should get back to work," Portia announced, her smile never wavering. "Dylan, don't forget about dinner Sunday. Mom's expecting you." She gave me another cool once-over. "Nice meeting you, Bernadette."

After she left, I looked back to Dylan. "I failed her test, didn't I?"

"Don't say that. Portia's not a bad person, just a little protective of me."

I nodded, then conjured up a smile. "I should get going."

"Already? You just got here."

"I need to do some things before the tour resumes. Thanks for the lemonade."

As I walked back to the bus, Portia's cool appraisal echoed in my mind.

She'd seen what everyone else probably saw when they looked at me—a girl in an ill-fitting shirt who had no business entertaining romantic notions about someone like Dylan.

The truth stung, but perhaps it was better to face it now than later.