Page 2 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3

still equipment used to distill alcohol, typically made of copper or stainless steel

THE SUNFLOWER field stretched before us, each bloom turned toward the afternoon sun like worshippers in prayer.

The sweet, earthy scents of late summer hung in the air.

As I approached the edge of the field, I could hear the elevated voices of people navigating the sunflower maze carved through towering stalks that moved when walkers brushed against the plants.

"This is the best thing ever!" Poppy shrieked, skipping beside me. Her red curls caught the sunlight like copper wire, and her freckled face glowed with pure joy.

Tracy Oney adjusted the wide brim of her straw hat and grinned at her daughter's enthusiasm. "Remember, we stick together. Lou got lost in here for two hours last year."

"That's because Lou refuses to ask for directions," came a warm voice behind us.

I turned to see a tall, lean man approaching with Lou trailing behind him, both carrying bottles of water and looking resigned to an afternoon of agricultural adventure.

The man planted a kiss on Tracy's cheek, then playfully yanked on Poppy's ponytail.

"Bernadette, this is my brother Clinton," Tracy said. "Clinton, Bernadette is our friend from the campground."

Clinton Oney had the same warm brown eyes as his sister, but where Tracy moved with maternal efficiency, he carried himself with casual sophistication.

His handshake was firm, his smile genuine, and when he spoke, his voice carried the cultured cadence of someone comfortable in professional circles.

"The tour guide," he said with obvious pleasure. "Tracy's told me all about you. How are you finding the bourbon industry?"

"Fascinating and overwhelming in equal measure," I admitted as we followed Poppy into the maze. Towering sunflower stalks closed around us like moving green walls. "There's so much history, so many family traditions."

"That's the beauty of Kentucky bourbon—it's still personal, still rooted in relationships." Clinton walked beside me as we navigated the winding path.

"Poppy said you work at Angel's Envy?"

"That's right. It's a relatively new distillery compared to some."

"What do you do?" I asked.

"I'm a lab technician. I test the products at different stages to ensure compliance."

The maze twisted and turned, leading us deeper into the labyrinth of flowers that towered eight feet above our heads. Poppy darted ahead like a hummingbird, disappearing around corners only to pop back into view with reports of dead ends and promising passages.

"And you like your job?" I asked.

He smiled. "I do. The industry is its own community, where everyone knows everyone."

"Then you're familiar with Goldenrod Distillery?"

"Of course. Who do you know at Goldenrod?"

I hesitated. "Dylan Biggs."

"Ah, Dylan." His voice took on a knowing warmth.

"Now there's a catch. Probably the most eligible bachelor in Louisville bourbon circles.

He's set to inherit one of the last privately-owned distilleries in Kentucky.

" He paused, giving me a sideways look that held unmistakable mischief. "And not hard to look at."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "So Goldenrod has a good reputation in the industry?"

He nodded. "Jessica's done a bang-up job of building on her father's legacy. She and Boyd have taken some calculated risks, but nothing too far outside the lines. They understand the backbone of the industry still hinges on tradition."

"Hey, Uncle Clinton," Poppy yelled. "Come and walk with me!"

"As you wish, milady," he called, then he gave me a smile. "Nice to meet you. See you later—if I don't get lost."

I laughed and I felt a little pang of envy over the obvious affection between the Oneys. Poppy would never question she was loved, and I was happy for her.

I continued through the maze, my shoes sinking into the soft dark soil in the path that had been cleared.

I met dead-ends and had to retrace my steps to take another direction, passing other walkers.

The large triangle-shaped leaves were hairy and felt soft when I brushed against them.

The heads of the sunflowers were as large as dinner plates.

The velvety gold-colored petals surrounded a dark center made up of hundreds of seeds.

There were thousands of plants. For a moment, I was alone on the path and marveled at the sheer abundance of nature.

My phone buzzed and Dylan's name appeared on the screen. Learning about mesquite barrel aging today. Wish you were here to taste it with me.

The message made my chest tighten with longing.

I'd never experienced this particular brand of ache—missing someone's physical presence, wondering what they were doing, counting days until their return.

My romantic experience consisted of a few awkward dates and one brief relationship with a coworker in Arizona that had fizzled when my mother's illness required all my attention.

This felt different… like I wasn't the only one taking a chance.

I responded Walking through a sunflower maze. Wish you were here, too.

Ahead of me, Poppy's voice rang out in triumph. "I found the center! There's a tire swing and everything!"

I followed her excited calls through the final turns of the maze, emerging into a circular clearing where an ancient oak tree provided blessed shade. Poppy had already claimed the rope swing, her legs pumping as she soared back and forth. Clinton was laughing and recording a video on his phone.

"Bernadette, you made it!" she yelled.

I smiled and waved, soaking in the family scene. I glanced at my phone, but Dylan hadn't responded. The thought of him returning, of whatever was developing between us becoming real and immediate again, filled me with equal parts anticipation and trepidation.

Some mazes were easier to navigate than others.