Page 28 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3

tails cut the point where hearts end and tails begin

THE GOLDEN hour light poured through Goldenrod's windows as I pushed through the heavy entrance doors, the familiar scents of vanilla and charred oak wrapping around me like a welcome. Dylan waited by the bar, his face lighting up when he spotted me crossing the empty tasting room.

"Perfect timing," he said, moving toward me. "I've got something special planned for tonight."

He led me deeper into the distillery than I'd ever been, past the production areas to a small, intimate tasting room I hadn't known existed.

Rich mahogany paneling lined the walls, and soft lamplight cast everything in warm amber tones.

The air here was thick with the concentrated essence of aging bourbon, so potent I could almost taste it.

"This is where my grandfather used to bring special guests," Dylan said, his voice carrying reverence as he ran his hand along the polished wood table. "Three generations of master distillers have made their most important decisions in this room."

I watched him move with practiced precision as he selected a bottle from a locked cabinet, his movements careful and deliberate.

Everything about Dylan spoke of someone who'd found his calling—the way his eyes lit up when he talked about mash bills, how his voice dropped to almost a whisper when he described the alchemy of grain and time.

"This is from a single barrel, aged fifteen years," he said, pouring the dark amber liquid into crystal glasses that caught the lamplight. "Only two hundred bottles in existence."

The bourbon was liquid silk on my tongue, complex layers revealing themselves with each sip—leather and tobacco, dried fruits, something floral that might have been honeysuckle. I closed my eyes, letting the flavors unfold across my palate.

"Incredible," I murmured, opening my eyes to find Dylan watching me intently. "There's something almost... smoky? But not wood smoke."

"Toasted marshmallow," he said, his voice warm with approval. "Most people miss that completely. You really do have a remarkable palate."

The praise made my cheeks warm, but something in his expression had shifted, become more serious.

"Bernadette," he said softly, setting down his glass and leaning closer. "You're special. I think about you all the time when you're not here. But I feel like you're holding something back from me."

My pulse quickened as he reached across the table to cover my hand with his. His fingers were warm, slightly rough from working with barrels and equipment.

"Is there someone else?" he asked. "Jett, maybe?"

"No," I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "It's just... your sister doesn't exactly approve of us seeing each other."

Dylan's expression darkened. "Ignore Portia. She went through a messy breakup a few months ago and she's taking it out on everyone. She doesn't want anyone to be happy right now."

The bourbon had loosened something inside me, dissolved the careful barriers I usually maintained. When Dylan stood and moved around the table, when he cupped my face in his hands, I didn't pull away.

"You're beautiful," he whispered against my lips, and then we were kissing with urgency.

His hands tangled in my hair as I pressed closer, the warmth of his body and the richness of the whiskey making everything feel heightened, electric. This was what I'd been hoping for, what I'd dreamed about during those long nights in my van.

"Well, well," a cold voice cut through our private moment. "Isn't this cozy."

We broke apart to find Portia standing in the doorway. She wore a smirk that made my stomach clench with dread.

"Portia, you could've knocked," Dylan said, frowning.

"This is as much my room as it is yours," she said flatly. "Dylan, did you know your little tour guide has been keeping secrets?"

"I don't want—" Dylan started, but she held up a manicured hand.

"She came to Kentucky to hunt for her biological father. Isn't that sweet? Oh, and the best part—she's homeless. Living in a van at a campground like a drifter."

My face burned with mortification as I watched Dylan's expression shift from confusion to something that might have been pity.

"How could you possibly know that?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

"Naomi was full of information when she came to interview us," Portia said with obvious relish. "Such interesting details about the people working in our industry."

The betrayal hit me like ice water. Jett was the only person who knew about my search for my father. He must've told Naomi, shared my secrets during pillow talk.

I grabbed my pursed and blindly ran toward the door.

"Bernadette, wait," Dylan called.

But I couldn't face the questions in his eyes, the shift in how he was looking at me now that he knew the truth. "Leave me alone!" I shouted.

I fled through the empty distillery and out to my van, my hands shaking as I started the engine. The drive back to Happy Trails passed in a blur of tears and rage.

At my campsite, I pulled out the college admission papers I'd been carrying for weeks, the application to finish my hospitality degree that had felt impossible just days ago.

Under the van's dim interior lights, I signed my name with decisive strokes, sealing my commitment to a future that suddenly felt like the only solid thing left in my crumbling world.