Page 23 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

esters fruity and floral aroma compounds formed during fermentation

THE VINTAGE little black dress had belonged to my mother—a relic from some long-ago occasion when she'd needed to look elegant.

I'd found it pressed between tissue paper in the bottom of a drawer, the silk still lustrous despite its age.

The fit was nearly perfect, skimming my curves in ways my oversized polo shirts never could, and paired with strappy sandals I'd splurged on at a discount store, I felt transformed.

My mother's pendant rested against the dress's modest neckline, her young face catching the light from Goldenrod's entrance lanterns as I approached the distillery.

The building had been transformed for the evening—string lights draped between the oak trees, the scent of grilling food mingling with the familiar aromatics of aging bourbon, and the warm glow of candles flickering in mason jars scattered across cocktail tables.

Dylan appeared at the entrance as if he'd been watching for me, and the expression that crossed his face when he saw me made my pulse quicken with something close to triumph.

"Bernadette," he breathed, his green eyes widening with unmistakable appreciation. "You look... incredible."

"Thank you," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. The dress, my mother's dress, seemed to be lending me her confidence along with her style.

"Come on, let me introduce you to everyone." He offered his arm and I took it, feeling as if I was stepping into an exciting new world.

The party buzzed with perhaps fifty guests—a mixture of industry professionals, family friends, and what appeared to be local dignitaries.

Everyone moved with the ease of people accustomed to such gatherings, their laughter mixing with the gentle clink of crystal glasses and the soft jazz trio playing near the tasting room entrance.

Jessica appeared first, resplendent in an emerald cocktail dress. Her smile was genuine and welcoming as she took my hands in both of hers.

"Bernadette! How lovely to see you again. And that dress is absolutely stunning—vintage?"

"It was my mother's," I admitted, touched by her genuine warmth.

"She had exquisite taste. Boyd, come meet Dylan's friend."

Boyd Biggs was tall and distinguished, with the kind of salt-and-pepper gravitas that suggested boardrooms and tee times.

His handshake was firm, his smile kind, and when Jessica whispered something about me being the tour guide Dylan had mentioned, his expression was interested rather than dismissive.

"Any friend of Dylan's is welcome here," he said simply, but his eyes held the same warmth I'd seen in his wife and son.

Portia materialized beside us in a flowing dress, her blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon. Her greeting was polite but cool, and as the evening progressed, she managed to work subtle criticisms into our conversations.

"That's such an interesting necklace," she said at one point, studying my mother's pendant with calculating eyes. "So bold to wear a photograph. Very... bohemian."

But Dylan's obvious delight in my presence, the way he kept finding excuses to touch my arm or lean close to explain some aspect of the bourbon-making process, kept my confidence buoyant despite his sister's barbs.

The Biggs family moved among their guests like royalty—Jessica charming the older generation with stories of her father's distilling innovations, Boyd discussing business with industry colleagues, Dylan and Portia working the younger crowd with jokes and laughter.

Near the evening's midpoint, Jessica called for attention, raising a crystal glass filled with amber liquid.

"Friends, family, fellow bourbon lovers," she began, her voice carrying effortlessly across the gathering. "Tonight we celebrate the release of our 2003 small-batch reserve—twenty years of patient aging in the tradition my father established over a half century ago."

The crowd murmured appreciatively as servers circulated with small glasses of the special bourbon, its aroma rich with vanilla and oak aged to perfect complexity.

Under Dylan's careful guidance, I sampled not just the reserve bourbon but an array of specialty cocktails crafted specifically for the evening—an old fashioned made with the twenty-year reserve, a mint julep that tasted like Kentucky summer captured in liquid form, and bourbon-infused chocolates that melted on my tongue with decadent richness.

"What do you think?" Dylan asked, watching my face as I tasted the reserve neat for the first time.

"It's like... liquid silk," I said, surprised by the depth of flavor I could actually detect. "Caramel and spice, but something floral too?"

"Goldenrod," he said with obvious pride. "You really do have a natural palate."

Sometime later, as the party reached its peak energy, Dylan touched my elbow gently. "Want to see something?"

He led me through a side door into a quiet hallway lined with portraits of Biggs family patriarchs, the noise of the party muffled by heavy wooden walls. Before I could ask what he wanted to show me, he'd turned and cupped my face in his hands.

"I've been wanting to do this all evening," he murmured, and then his lips found mine.

The kiss was everything I'd imagined and more—warm and thorough and tasting of bourbon and possibility. My hands found the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer as weeks of careful distance dissolved into something urgent and honest.

"Well, well," Boyd's amused voice cut through our private moment. "Don't mind me, just looking for the restroom."

We broke apart, both breathing hard. Boyd winked at us as he passed, his expression more indulgent than disapproving.

"We should probably get back," Dylan said, though his hands lingered at my waist.

As we rejoined the party, I caught sight of myself in one of the antique mirrors lining the hallway—cheeks flushed, lips slightly swollen, eyes bright.

The evening continued around us, but something fundamental had shifted. I was developing a taste for bourbon, yes—but more importantly, I was developing a taste for this version of myself.