Page 5 of Bourbon Girl, part 1 of 6
"I'm sorry to hear that," I murmured, although internally I was busy celebrating that Marv was not my father.
He swiped at his eyes, then sniffed. "Yeah, well, her mistake. This business is going places. Bourbon tourism is exploding right now. We get visitors from Japan, Germany, all over the world." His manic energy returned. "And tomorrow, you're gonna see it firsthand. You'll shadow me on the Fourth of July tour, learn the ropes, see how it's done. I'm a pretty good guide, if I say so myself. But someone's gotta be the brains, am I right?"
I nodded. "Right."
The phone sitting on the desk rang. Marv glanced at the caller ID screen, then picked up the receiver and set it back down with a bang, effectively hanging up on the person. He gave me a flat smile. "Telemarketer."
A collections agency, more likely. But I kept my mouth shut.
He opened a desk drawer, rummaged a bit, then pulled out a couple of forms. "Fill these out and give them back to me tomorrow."
I stood and clumsily deposited his mail on a bare spot on the desk, then took the employment forms. "Okay, what time should I expect to be picked up?"
"Around nine-thirty. Tours start at ten." He got up and lumbered over to a cardboard box, reached in and withdrew a burgundy polo-style shirt, then walked it back and held it up to me.
The shirt read "Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours" on the front. On the back was an unidentifiable logo.
At my questioning expression, Marv said, "It's a bird sitting on a barrel. Get it?"
"Oh. Yeah, I see it now." I didn't see it. And the shirt was a dress on me.
"Sorry about the size. I got a good deal on double X's."
"I'll make it work," I assured him.
Marv smiled wide. "I think you're going to fit in just fine here, Bernadette." The phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID screen, picked up the receiver, then set it back down with a bang, all while maintaining his smile.
July 4, Friday
mash billthe specific recipe or ratio of grains used in bourbon production
I WOKEup with butterflies doing acrobatics in my stomach. First day jitters hit me harder than I'd expected as I pulled on my nicest jeans and the company polo shirt Marv had given me. I studied my reflection in the cloudy mirror in the shower house. The burgundy color made me look jaundiced—great. The extra volume was too much to tuck into my jeans, so I tied a knot at the hem on one side. I fluffed my fine hair as much as I could and pinched my cheeks to add some color to my face. It would have to do. After filling a mug with hot water, I shouldered my duffel bag and walked back to my van to make instant coffee. I dropped my bag, then headed to the entrance of the campground. It was already warm and muggy. I hoped I'd applied enough deodorant.
I'd barely taken two drinks of my liquid breakfast when I heard the rumble of a big engine. The short white bus sported "Birdwhistle Bourbon Tours" painted on the side in burgundy letters that didn't quite line up. The bus stopped and the door opened, revealing a man behind the wheel who surpassed Marv's brief "great guy" assessment.
Jett Flannery looked to be in his early thirties, with dark hair that defied whatever product he'd used to smooth it down and the kind of rugged good looks featured on the covers of romance novels my mother used to read. He was solidly built, with broad shoulders and strong arms that suggested actual physical work versus a gym membership. He wore dark jeans, a red companyshirt that fit him considerably better than mine fit me, and low-heeled black boots that had seen some miles.
"You must be the new victim," he said as I climbed aboard, his voice carrying a hint of amusement that immediately rubbed me wrong.
"Bernadette Waters," I replied.
"Jett Flannery. Hope you last longer than the previous three casualties." He closed the door and shifted into gear. "Though honestly, the odds aren't in your favor."
I swung into the seat behind him. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
He glanced at me in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow raised. "Just being realistic. Fair warning though—you better be a fast learner because Marv couldn't guide tourists to a bathroom if it had neon signs and a marching band."
I wanted to defend Marv, but something in Jett's tone suggested he wasn't exaggerating.
On the short drive to the strip mall office, we maintained a silence that confirmed Jett's estimation that I wouldn't last long enough to make it worth getting to know me.
I surveyed him under my lashes as he drummed his fingers to the beat of a country song on the radio. As if a guy who looked like that would want to get to knowme.
We pulled up to the strip mall office where ten customers were already gathered—a mix of family and friends celebrating Independence Day. Marv emerged from the office looking hot and bothered, clutching a clipboard and a microphone.
Ugh, I would have to use a microphone?
I should've mentioned earlier that I have three phobias—heights, bees, and public speaking. (I know, I know.)
