Page 6 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6

closed fermenter a fermentation vessel with a sealed lid to reduce contamination

MY STOMACH fluttered with nervous energy as our group approached Goldenrod Distillery. I'd been looking forward to seeing Dylan again since Monday's private tasting, replaying our conversation and the way his eyes had lit up when I'd correctly identified the bourbon's flavor notes.

But now, standing outside the rustic building with its weathered wooden sign, I felt suddenly awkward and uncertain. What if Monday had been just professional courtesy? What if I'd imagined the connection between us, the warmth in his voice when he'd said I had a natural palate?

"You folks go ahead," I told my tour group—eight retirees from Michigan who were more interested in air conditioning than bourbon education. "I'll catch up in just a minute."

They shuffled toward the entrance, fanning themselves with brochures and complaining good-naturedly about the heat. I lingered outside, smoothing my hair and checking my reflection in the tasting room's large windows.

That's when I saw them.

Dylan stood behind the bar, leaning forward with his elbows on the polished wood surface, completely absorbed in conversation with a stunning blond woman.

She was probably my age, with the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genes and expensive grooming—smooth golden hair that caught the light, perfect posture, clothes that looked like they'd been tailored for her willowy frame.

They were laughing at something, their heads tilted toward each other in the intimate way of people who shared inside jokes.

The woman gestured with graceful hands as she spoke, and Dylan's face was animated with genuine delight, the same expression I'd foolishly thought was reserved for our private moments.

My chest tightened with the sharp recognition of being the outsider looking in at something I could never be part of.

The woman at the bar was clearly from his world—polished, sophisticated, the kind of person who knew which fork to use at fancy dinners and could discuss wine vintages without consulting Google.

I backed away from the window, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. How naive could I be? Monday's tasting had probably been nothing more than Dylan being polite to a frequent customer, the kind of professional courtesy he extended to anyone who showed genuine interest in the family business.

I returned to the bus where Jett sat reading something on his phone, country music playing softly from the radio.

"That was quick," he observed, glancing up as I settled into my usual seat. "Not going to say hello to loverboy?"

The teasing comment hit like salt in an open wound. "Mind your own Naomi—" I caught myself, heat flooding my face. "I mean, mind your own business."

Jett's eyebrows shot up, and I could see him fighting back a grin in the rearview mirror. "Trouble in paradise?"

"There was never any paradise," I muttered. Later as we pulled away from Goldenrod, I watched in the side mirror as the distillery disappeared behind us, taking with it whatever foolish fantasies I'd been nurturing about Dylan's interest in me.