Page 17 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

underpitching adding too little yeast, leading to incomplete fermentation

THE MORNING air carried the promise of another sweltering day as I climbed aboard the tour bus, taking in the scene that had become painfully rote.

Naomi sat behind Jett, but today there was an unmistakable intimacy in their positioning—her body angled toward him, one arm draped casually across the back of his seat, the kind of comfortable closeness that spoke of shared pillows and morning coffee.

The evidence of their night together was written in small details I couldn't help but notice.

Jett's hair was slightly mussed, and Naomi wore the same dress from yesterday, though she'd somehow managed to make it look fresh and intentional rather than slept-in.

Her makeup was softer than usual, giving her that dewy, just-kissed look.

I settled into a seat several rows back, telling myself I was giving them privacy when really I was creating distance for my own sanity. I focused on arranging my notes and water bottle with unnecessary precision.

"You're going to love this distillery," Naomi was saying. "The barrel house has this incredible cathedral ceiling that makes you feel like you're in church."

"Sacred bourbon," Jett replied with a chuckle, and I could hear the smile in his voice without looking up.

Movement in my peripheral vision made me glance toward the front of the bus. Naomi had reached up to run her fingers through Jett's dark hair, her touch gentle and possessive as she smoothed down an errant cowlick. The gesture was so casually affectionate, it made my stomach clench.

I wanted that with somebody.

Jett's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. Guilt flashed across his face. Without thinking, I plastered on an exaggerated smile and gave him a little wave, then proceeded to twirl a strand of my own hair around my finger in obvious mimicry of Naomi's gesture.

His expression shifted to sheepishness and he looked away, focusing on the road as color crept up his neck.

My phone buzzed against my thigh, providing a welcome distraction from the awkward scene playing out in front of me. The text was from Dylan, and reading it made my pulse quicken with surprised pleasure.

Miss seeing you around the distillery. Hope we can catch up soon?

Something about the question mark at the end suggested genuine uncertainty. It was endearing.

I texted back. Yes, soon. Looking forward to it.

And I was.