Page 3 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3

column still a continuous distillation apparatus used in most large-scale bourbon production

THE BACHELOR party climbed aboard the tour bus like a pack, their testosterone-fueled energy filling the confined space with raucous laughter. Six men in their late twenties, all sporting matching t-shirts that proclaimed "Jake's Last Stand."

"Well, hello there, beautiful," the groom-to-be called out as I stood to begin my welcome spiel. His confident swagger suggested a lifetime of getting his way. "I'm Jake, and you're about to make this the best bachelor party in Kentucky history."

His friends whooped their approval, and I caught Jett's disapproving expression in the rearview mirror. His obvious irritation sent an unexpected flutter through my chest.

"Welcome to Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours," I began, projecting my voice over their continued commentary about my appearance. "Today we'll explore four distilleries that represent—"

"Forget the distilleries," interrupted a sandy-haired groomsman. "We want to explore you ."

More laughter and more uncomfortable leering that made my skin crawl. Jett's eyes found mine in the mirror, his expression shifting to protective anger.

"I prefer to get back to the history," I said firmly, then resumed my recitation, knowing I'd probably killed my chance for decent tips.

The day crawled by as the bachelor party treated each stop like a personal audition for my romantic attention. At Woodford Reserve, Jake cornered me near the gift shop, his breath reeking of mouthwash attempting to mask morning alcohol consumption.

"Come on, sweetheart. One drink after work. I promise to show you a good time."

"I'm flattered," I lied smoothly, "but I have a boyfriend."

It wasn't technically true, but it felt true in some essential way that surprised me.

By the time we reached Goldenrod, my jaw ached from forced pleasantness. The sight of the rustic distillery building should have brought comfort, but instead it reminded me of Dylan's absence.

"Not going to say hello to loverboy?" Jett asked as I lingered by the bus while our group stumbled toward the entrance.

"He's still in Texas," I reminded him.

"Ah. Well, if the boys cross the line while you're in there, just leave. Or text me."

I swallowed, then gave him a grateful nod.

I followed the bachelor party into the tasting room where the scents of aged wood and bourbon immediately transported me back to my last evening with Dylan.

The space buzzed with late-afternoon energy, tourists sampling flights while soft jazz played overhead.

"Bernadette!"

I turned my head and balked slightly to see Jessica, Boyd, and Portia Biggs standing in the premium tasting area. Jessica smiled and waved. I cautiously made my way over, conscious of my ill-fitting tour guide uniform.

"Hello," I ventured.

"What a nice surprise," Boyd said.

"Not really," Portia pointed out dryly. "She's a bourbon tour guide, after all."

Jessica ignored the barb. "We were just tasting a twelve-year-old vintage. Want to try it?"

I shook my head. "I shouldn't because I'm working."

"Just a taste," she said. "Dylan mentioned you have a good palate."

Portia's eye roll spurred me forward in defiance. "Just a taste."

Boyd poured a finger's worth of the bourbon into a globed Glencairn glass, then extended it to me.

I took the glass and felt very much like I was being tested. I swirled the amber liquid in the glass to release the aromas, then pushed my nose into the glass to take them in. Then I sipped the bourbon and allowed it to wash over my tongue, then "chewed" the liquid to release the flavors.

"What do you taste?" Boyd asked.

"Caramel," I said. "And something nutty… pecans?"

Boyd smiled wide. "Very good."

"Dylan was right," Jessica said. "You have a good palate."

Portia gave a little snort. "We should let Bernadette get back to work." She nodded to the rowdy table of customers with "Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours" stickers on their shirts. "She has tips to earn."

"Portia," Jessica murmured.

"She's right," I said, then set the glass on the table. "Thank you for letting me taste the bourbon."

I left their table, my cheeks aflame, and joined the table of bachelor-party dudes.

I tried to impart some tasting advice, but they were slamming shots.

I endured their suggestive remarks until I couldn't anymore, then I walked back outside to get some fresh air.

Portia's palpable disapproval of me hit on all my soft-tissue spots of not being worthy.

In her own way, I'm sure she thought she was being kind, warning me that her brother was way out of my league.

I glanced at my phone to see if Dylan had responded to my last text. He hadn't.

I bit into my lip. Maybe Portia wasn't being polite about the situation… but she wasn't wrong either.