Page 2 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

yeast microorganisms that feed on sugars and produce alcohol during fermentation

THE GRAVEL crunched under the bus tires as Jett pulled up to the campground entrance.

I dragged myself from the picnic table where I'd been nursing my second cup of bad coffee.

My reflection in the side mirror was brutal—hair that defied taming and the pale, hollow look of someone who'd spent the night staring at the ceiling.

"Morning, sunshine," Jett said as I climbed aboard, but his usual teasing tone was tempered with genuine concern. "Jesus, Bernadette, you look terrible."

"Thanks a lot," I muttered, dropping into my usual seat behind him with less grace than usual. The vinyl squeaked under my weight, and I immediately regretted not putting on more deodorant. The morning was already sticky with humidity that made my clothes cling uncomfortably.

"I'm serious," he said, adjusting the rearview mirror to study my face as we pulled away from the campground. "You look like you haven't slept in a week. Feeling better today?"

"Not really," I admitted, rubbing my temples where a headache was already forming despite the early hour. "Couldn't sleep."

He shifted into gear and we merged onto the main road, the rhythm of the diesel engine filling the silence between us. I could see him glancing at me periodically in the mirror, his brow furrowed with the kind of concern I wasn't used to receiving from anyone.

"I noticed you checking your phone a lot yesterday," he said after a few minutes, his voice carrying that particular tone men got when they were fishing for information.

I had been checking my phone—scrolling through social media searches for Keith Banyon, looking up his liquor distribution company, trying to find any piece of information that might help me decide whether to contact him or keep running in the opposite direction.

"So?" I said defensively.

"So," he continued with growing amusement, "I'm wondering if you're losing sleep over some guy. Is that what this is about?"

I released a long sigh. The weight of the secret I'd been carrying felt heavier this morning, and Jett's unexpected concern made something crack inside me. "As a matter of fact, yes."

His eyebrows shot up in the mirror. "Really? I was just messing with you."

For a moment, I considered telling him everything—about my search for my father, about Keith Banyon and the blurred photograph, about the terrifying possibility that I'd found what I was looking for and had no idea what to do with it.

The words gathered at the base of my throat, ready to spill out in a rush of honesty that might make me feel human again.

But before I could speak, Jett's expression shifted to something mock-serious. "Well, in that case, I gotta say—no guy is worth losing sleep over. No guy except me, that is."

Despite everything, I felt my mouth twitch into an almost-smile. "Your modesty is overwhelming."

"I'm just saying, if you're going to toss and turn all night thinking about someone, it might as well be someone cute who owns his own bee farm." He grinned at me in the mirror. "I mean, the honey alone should seal the deal."

"You're ridiculous," I said, but I could feel some of the tension leaving my shoulders. There was something oddly comforting about Jett's easy confidence, the way he could make light of things without dismissing them entirely.

"Ridiculously irresistible," he corrected, and for a moment, the morning felt lighter.

That feeling lasted exactly until we pulled into the strip mall parking lot and I spotted Naomi Sook waiting by the tour office. She waved enthusiastically at our approaching bus.

"Well, look who's back," Jett said, and the pleasure in his voice was unmistakable.

Naomi practically bounced up the bus steps, bringing with her the scent of expensive perfume and the kind of confidence that came from knowing you looked fantastic first thing in the morning.

"Hello!" she called. Her smile encompassed both of us but lingered longer on Jett. "I hope you don't mind me joining you again. My editor loved the preliminary article, so I'm back for more research."

"Not at all," Jett said, his whole demeanor shifting into something warmer and more attentive. "Great to see you again, Naomi."

I slumped lower in my seat, watching their easy interaction with the kind of sourness that made my coffee taste more bitter.

I closed my eyes and wished, not for the first time, that I could've just stayed in bed.