Page 21 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

fermentation profile the combination of temperature, time, and yeast that defines a bourbon’s character

THE GRAY Lexus moved through Lexington's morning traffic with its usual measured pace.

I followed at what I'd convinced myself was a safe distance, two cars back in the right lane.

The routine had become almost meditative over the past few days—watching Keith Banyon navigate his orderly life while I struggled to find the courage to approach him directly.

At the intersection of Versailles Road and New Circle, Keith's turn signal began blinking.

I followed suit, expecting another mundane stop at the bank or coffee shop.

But instead of continuing to some predictable destination, the Lexus turned into a nearly empty parking lot behind a medical building.

My stomach clenched with dread as I realized my mistake. This wasn't part of his routine—this was a trap.

I pulled into the lot anyway, having little choice now that I'd committed to the turn.

Keith's car sat parked near the entrance, and as I watched through my windshield, he emerged from the driver's seat with deliberate movements that spoke of controlled anger.

His arms crossed over his chest as he stared directly at my van, his expression grim and unmistakably confrontational.

There was no pretending this was a coincidence. No way to reverse course and disappear. He began striding toward me.

I sat frozen behind the wheel as he approached, my hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel. When he reached my window and gestured for me to roll it down, I had no choice but to comply.

Up close, Keith Banyon was more imposing than I'd realized.

His gray eyes were sharp with intelligence and barely contained frustration, his jaw set in a hard line.

Recognition dawned in his eyes as he studied my face more carefully.

"Wait. You're the girl from the Red Pegasus. The one with the photograph."

I nodded mutely, my throat too tight to speak.

His anger seemed to evaporate, replaced by something closer to concern. "Why are you following me?"

"I—"

"And have you been driving past my house? Because my wife is scared to death. She's convinced we have a stalker." His expression softened slightly as he took in my obvious distress, but his tone remained firm. "What do you want from me?"

The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other as if speed could somehow make the truth less devastating. "I think you might be my father. My mother worked at the Red Pegasus thirty years ago, and you said you dated her, and I was born nine months after she left Kentucky, and—"

"Stop." Keith held up his hand, his expression shifting to something infinitely gentler. "Slow down. Breathe."

I gulped air, trying to steady myself as he processed what I'd just revealed.

"Honey," he said finally, his voice kind but firm, "I'm not your father."

The words hit me like a physical blow, even though I'd prepared myself for this possibility.

"I can't have children," he continued gently. "My wife and I tried for years before we decided to adopt. Sarah and Emma—they're both adopted. We brought them home as infants."

The parking lot seemed to tilt around me, and I gripped the steering wheel harder to steady myself. All those days of following him, all the research and surveillance, the carefully constructed fantasy of finally finding my father—all of it crumbling in an instant.

"But I am sorry about your mother," Keith said, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a business card.

"Ginger was a sweet girl. If you'd like to talk about her sometime, call me.

And I'll try to remember the names of other guys she dated back then.

Maybe I can help you figure out who your father actually is. "

He handed me the card through the window, his fingers briefly touching mine in a gesture of unexpected kindness.

"Take care of yourself," he said softly. "And no more following people, okay? It's a good way to get yourself in serious trouble."

As he walked back to his Lexus, I sat in my van fighting back tears of disappointment and embarrassment. Keith Banyon had turned out to be exactly the kind of man I would have wanted for a father—decent, successful, caring. The kind of man who would have given me the stable childhood I'd never had.

But he wasn't mine. Had never been mine. Was just another dead end in a search that seemed increasingly hopeless.