Page 27 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

volatile compounds substances created during fermentation that affect flavor, some desirable, others not

THE SHADE of an ancient oak tree provided blessed relief from the afternoon sun as I settled on a bench outside Goldenrod Distillery, my notebook balanced on my knees and a pen poised over a blank page.

The scents of fermenting grain and charred oak drifted from the production buildings, mixing with the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle (I could identify it now) that climbed the nearby fence.

Our tour group—a book club from Nashville celebrating their fifteenth anniversary—had dispersed inside for their guided tasting, leaving me with an hour to kill.

Normally I would have wandered into the tasting room to chat with Dylan, but the empty ache in my chest reminded me that he was hundreds of miles away, learning craft distilling techniques in Texas.

"Not going to say hello to your boyfriend?" Jett's voice carried gentle teasing as he approached, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

I looked up, squinting against the dappled sunlight filtering through the oak leaves. "He's in Texas for two weeks. Some kind of master distiller internship."

"Ah." Jett settled onto the bench beside me, close enough that I could smell the lingering scent of his soap. "What's got you so deep in thought then?"

I studied his profile, remembering his offer from Friday evening. "Were you serious when you said you'd help me find my father?"

"Of course I was serious." He turned to face me fully, his dark eyes intent. "What do you need?"

"I have a last name now—Church. But nobody seems to know a first name or where this person might be now." I gestured to my mostly empty notebook. "What I really need are employee directories from the bourbon distilleries. Do you have any idea how I could get my hands on those?"

Jett's face broke into a slow grin that transformed his usually serious expression. "As a matter of fact, I do."

My pulse quickened. "Really?"

"I have them," he said simply, as if he were telling me the weather forecast. "Most of them, anyway."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You have bourbon industry employee directories?"

"I sell honey to a lot of the distilleries—they use it in specialty batches, gift products, things like that.

Part of building those business relationships means staying in touch with key personnel over the years.

" He shrugged as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

"I've got directories going back to when I started the apiaries, plus some older ones I inherited from the beekeeper I bought the business from. "

The notebook slipped from my fingers. "Jett, that's... that's incredible. When can I see them?"

"How about tomorrow? We don't have any tours scheduled, so you could come out to the farm and use my office. We can go through them systematically, look for anyone named Church."

"You'd do that? Spend your day off helping me search through old directories?"

"I told you I wanted to help, and I meant it. This search of yours—it matters. And if I can do something to help you find the answers you're looking for, then that's what I'm going to do."

The sincerity in his voice made my throat tight with unexpected emotion. After months of carrying this burden alone, of feeling like an outsider looking for something that might not even exist, here was someone offering not just moral support but actual, practical assistance.

"Yes," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'd love that. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Jett said with a smile. "We might spend the whole day looking through dusty old phone books and company rosters without finding anything."

Or , I thought to myself, we might find exactly what we were looking for . Hope bubbled up in my chest like carbonation.