Page 17 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
condenser the part of the still where alcohol vapor is cooled and condensed back into liquid
THE BUS hummed with animated conversation as our group of nine writers settled into their seats, their enthusiasm infectious despite the early hour.
They clutched coffee cups like lifelines and spoke in the rapid-fire cadence of people who made their living with words, their laughter punctuating discussions about character development and plot structure with the kind of intellectual energy I rarely encountered on bourbon tours.
"I swear, bourbon is the unofficial fuel of the writing profession," announced Emily, a mystery novelist from Nashville. "Show me a writer who doesn't drink, and I'll show you someone suffering from permanent writer's block."
Her companions erupted in agreement, sharing anecdotes about literary cocktail parties and the famous authors who'd done their best work with a glass of whiskey at their elbow.
Their camaraderie reminded me of everything I'd loved about my brief college experience—the joy of being surrounded by people who found ideas genuinely exciting.
"Bourbon has such a rich relationship with American literature," I said, settling into the rhythm of engagement that came naturally with this particular audience. "From Mark Twain to Hunter S. Thompson, writers have been celebrating Kentucky whiskey for generations."
The literary references landed perfectly, sparking discussions about bourbon's role in Southern Gothic literature and the way alcohol functioned as both character motivation and symbolic device in contemporary fiction.
For the first time in weeks, I felt like I was truly connecting with my customers rather than simply performing for them.
At each distillery, the writers approached tastings with the same precision they'd use to dissect metaphorical imagery. Their genuine curiosity about the craft behind the product made my job feel meaningful rather than mechanical.
The atmosphere remained buoyant as we pulled into Goldenrod's parking lot. My pulse quickened with anticipation of seeing Dylan. He was back in classes, so our texting had slowed down. I felt like the connection we had was slipping away.
Dylan looked up from behind the tasting room bar as our group entered, and his face brightened with the kind of pleasure that made my chest flutter. He moved through the routine of greeting our tour with professional courtesy, but his eyes kept finding mine.
While the writers engaged with their guided tasting, Dylan appeared beside me near the historical displays, close enough that I could smell his intoxicating cologne.
"Friday night," he said without preamble. "I was thinking maybe I could come to your place? We could have some privacy, maybe cook dinner together? I'll bring everything."
The suggestion hit me like ice water. Dylan wanted to visit my home—my home that consisted of a rust-spotted van with a leaky ceiling and a fold-down bed. The image of him discovering my living situation made my stomach clench with mortification.
"I have plans," I blurted out, the lie tumbling from my lips with desperate speed. "All weekend, actually. Previous commitments."
Dylan's expression shifted to something between disappointment and confusion. "Oh. Okay. Maybe next weekend then?"
"Maybe," I managed, my voice tight with the effort of maintaining casual indifference while panic coursed through my veins.
"Dylan!" Portia's voice cut through our conversation like a blade, her perfectly manicured presence materializing beside us with predatory timing.
"Mother wants to go over the quarterly inventory reports," she announced, her gaze sliding over me with the dismissive assessment of someone encountering an insignificant obstacle. "The accountants are waiting in the office."
Dylan's jaw tightened with obvious frustration. "Can't it wait thirty minutes?"
"You know how Mother gets when she's kept waiting," Portia replied with false sympathy, then turned to me with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. "I'm sure Bernadette understands that business comes first."
"I should get back to my group anyway," I murmured, backing toward the exit.
As I rejoined the writers for their final tasting notes, Dylan's confused expression and Portia's satisfied smirk replayed in my mind with equal intensity. I'd successfully protected my secret, but the victory felt hollow and self-defeating.