Page 20 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

flocculation the clumping and settling of yeast cells after fermentation

I PUSHED through Goldenrod's heavy wooden doors, my stomach fluttering with the same nervous energy I'd felt as a teenager approaching my high school crush. The tasting room hummed with afternoon activity—the gentle murmur of conversations mixing with soft jazz playing overhead.

Dylan looked up from behind the bar and grinned. The genuine pleasure in his expression made my cheeks warm with anticipation.

"Bernadette!" He set down the bottle he'd been holding and moved toward me. "I was hoping to see you today."

"Here I am," I said, settling onto one of the bar stools.

"Lucky me," he said, already reaching for the pitcher of lemonade. The ice cubes clinked softly against the glass as he poured, and I found myself watching the graceful movement of his long-fingered hands. His rolled sleeves revealed strong forearms dusted with fine golden hair.

We fell into easy conversation about the distillery's upcoming harvest season, the challenges of maintaining traditional methods in a modern market, his progress toward bourbon certification.

Dylan had a way of making me feel like my opinions mattered, asking thoughtful follow-up questions and listening with genuine interest when I shared observations from my tours.

He served other customers but always returned his attention to me, as if our conversation was more compelling than any professional obligation.

When I glanced at my watch and realized I needed to rejoin my tour group, disappointment settled heavy in my chest. These moments with Dylan felt like glimpses of a different life.

"I should get back," I said reluctantly, sliding off the bar stool. "Don't want to keep people waiting."

"Of course," Dylan said, but he came around the bar instead of simply waving goodbye. "I'll walk you out."

The August heat hit us like a wall as we stepped outside and walked toward the parked tour bus. Jett stood beside it, checking something on his clipboard. He looked up as we approached.

"Jett," Dylan said with a friendly nod.

"Dylan," Jett responded, his tone neutral but not unfriendly. "How's business?"

"Can't complain. You folks have a good tour today?"

"Always do when we stop here," Jett said, then climbed aboard the bus with efficient movements that suggested our break time was officially over.

Dylan turned back to me, lowering his voice slightly. "Actually, there's something I wanted to ask you. We're having an event here Saturday evening to announce a new bourbon—just family and friends and some top vendors. Would you like to come?"

My pulse quickened. "I'd… love to."

He smiled. "Great. I'll text you the details."

As I climbed aboard the bus, I could feel Jett's eyes on me in the rearview mirror. The engine rumbled to life, and we pulled away from Goldenrod with our group of satisfied tourists chattering about their tastings.

"So," Jett said after a few minutes, his voice teasing, "sounds like you've got weekend plans."

I smiled and said nothing. But inside I was shouting, Yay. For. Me!