Page 15 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

mash temperature the temperature at which fermentation occurs, affecting yeast activity

WHEN THE bus pulled into the tour office parking lot, Jett groaned.

I glanced out the window to see Teresa standing there with a smirk on her face. She wore a hot pink blazer, and her matching clipboard was already positioned for maximum note-taking efficiency.

I made a face, then rearranged my expression when she climbed on board.

"There's my star pupil," she announced with false enthusiasm. "Ready for another clinic?"

I forced a smile and nodded. Today's group was a family reunion from Tennessee—eight people ranging from teenagers to grandparents, all eager for a bourbon adventure.

They seemed genuinely excited, chattering about different distilleries they'd researched and asking thoughtful questions as we loaded onto the bus.

I'd spent hours the night before memorizing historical details, determined to prove I could elevate my presentations. As we pulled away from the office, I launched into my opening spiel with renewed confidence.

"Welcome to Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours. I'm Bernadette, and today we'll explore Kentucky's liquid heritage, beginning in 1783 when the first corn-based whiskey was distilled by—"

"Slower!" Teresa interrupted, her pen already scratching across the clipboard. "You're rushing through the historical context. Give people time to absorb the information!"

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I pressed on, incorporating facts about early settlers and limestone-filtered water that I'd learned from my research.

At each stop, I wove in additional details about barrel charring techniques and the evolution of mash bills, proud of the depth I was adding to the basic tour structure.

But Teresa's interruptions continued. Speak louder, smile more, use hand gestures, make eye contact. The pen never stopped moving, documenting every perceived flaw.

The Tennessee family remained polite throughout the day, but I watched their initial enthusiasm dampen to general disinterest as Teresa seemed determined to belittle me. Not surprisingly, the tips were barely enough for me and Jett to split.

Back at the office, Teresa waited until the customers had disembarked before delivering her verdict.

"Better, but still not where we need to be," she announced, consulting her notes. "And frankly, Bernadette, we need to address the elephant in the room."

"What elephant?" Something in her tone made my stomach clench.

"Your appearance, honey. Marv says you're living at a campground. No wonder you always look like you need a good shower and a blowout. Do better."

Her words hit me like physical blows, confirming every insecurity I'd ever harbored about my appearance, my circumstances, my worth. I felt exposed and diminished, reduced to everything I lacked rather than anything I might offer.

She gave me a pointed look, then flounced off the bus.

I couldn't even make eye contact with Jett.

On the ride back to the campground, he tried to lighten the mood.

"Don't let the wicked witch get to you," he said. "You know she's just threatened by your charm and natural beauty."

"Right," I said dryly.

I felt the weight of judgment pushing me down—Dylan's sophisticated sister finding me lacking, Keith Banyon's beautiful life that I might disrupt, my homeless existence that apparently showed on my face like a scarlet letter.

The tears came suddenly, hot and unstoppable, streaming down my cheeks despite my efforts to hold them back. Months of grief, uncertainty, and mounting pressure finally found their release in ugly, choking sobs. I was mortified.

"Hey," Jett said softly, reaching back to touch my shoulder. "Bernadette—"

"Don't." I slapped away his hand with more force than necessary. "Just don't."

The bus had barely stopped at the campground entrance before I was on my feet. I leapt through the open door and fled toward the relative safety of my van.