Page 15 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
The evidence of their night together was written in small details I couldn't help but notice. Jett's hair was slightly mussed, and Naomi wore the same dress from yesterday, though she'd somehow managed to make it look fresh and intentional rather than slept-in. Her makeup was softer than usual, giving her that dewy, just-kissed look.
I settled into a seat several rows back, telling myself I was giving them privacy when really I was creating distance for my own sanity. I focused on arranging my notes and water bottle with unnecessary precision.
"You're going to love this distillery," Naomi was saying. "The barrel house has this incredible cathedral ceiling that makes you feel like you're in church."
"Sacred bourbon," Jett replied with a chuckle, and I could hear the smile in his voice without looking up.
Movement in my peripheral vision made me glance toward the front of the bus. Naomi had reached up to run her fingers through Jett's dark hair, her touch gentle and possessive as shesmoothed down an errant cowlick. The gesture was so casually affectionate, it made my stomach clench.
I wanted that with somebody.
Jett's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. Guilt flashed across his face. Without thinking, I plastered on an exaggerated smile and gave him a little wave, then proceeded to twirl a strand of my own hair around my finger in obvious mimicry of Naomi's gesture.
His expression shifted to sheepishness and he looked away, focusing on the road as color crept up his neck.
My phone buzzed against my thigh, providing a welcome distraction from the awkward scene playing out in front of me. The text was from Dylan, and reading it made my pulse quicken with surprised pleasure.
Miss seeing you around the distillery. Hope we can catch up soon?
Something about the question mark at the end suggested genuine uncertainty. It was endearing.
I texted back.Yes, soon. Looking forward to it.
And I was.
August 18, Monday
fermentation timethe number of days mash is allowed to ferment (usually 3–7 days)
I PUSHEDthrough the glass door of the Two Guys Detective Agency, and the bell chimed my arrival. The smell of burnt coffee and old carpet hit me immediately, along with the sound of raised voices coming from the back office.
"—absolutely no right to run surveillance on the Winston divorce case without consulting me first, Octavia! We're supposed to be partners!"
"It was a judgment call, Linda. The guy was about to skip town with half their assets!"
I cleared my throat loudly, and both women appeared in the doorway looking flustered. Linda's blond hair looked as if she'd been running her hands through it, while Octavia wore an expression of defiant righteousness.
"Hello, Bernadette," Linda said, smoothing down her hair and forcing a professional smile.
"Come on back," Octavia said, gesturing toward her office. "We've got things to discuss."
I followed her into the lavishly decorated room and settled into a white upholstered chair as she lowered herself behind her impressive desk.
"I've got your boy's life story."
My stomach clenched as she opened a thick folder, revealing photographs, printouts, and what appeared to be official documents. The reality of what I'd set in motion suddenly felt overwhelming.
"Keith Alan Banyon, age fifty-four," Octavia began, reading from her notes like she was delivering a briefing. "Married to Kirsten Bush Banyon for twenty-seven years. Two daughters—Sarah, twenty-six, and Emma, twenty-two."
The words hit me like physical blows. Two daughters. I possibly had half-sisters.
"Both girls graduated from college," Octavia continued, seemingly oblivious to my distress. "Sarah's a nurse at Baptist Health, Emma's in graduate school at UK studying marketing. Keith's worked in various capacities in the bourbon industry his entire adult career—started as a warehouse worker at Heaven Hill, worked his way up through sales, and now he's regional manager for Monroe's Beverage Distribution. It's a bigger job than it sounds. Monroe's is an empire."
She flipped through several pages, her finger tracking across columns of information. "Clean record, not even a speeding ticket. Regular church attendance at First Presbyterian, volunteers with Habitat for Humanity, coaches soccer. Model citizen, by all accounts."
My throat felt tight as I processed the information. This wasn't some deadbeat father who'd abandoned his responsibilities. This was a man who'd built a solid, respectable life—a man who might not even know I existed.
"No offense," I said finally, "but you could have told me all this over the phone."
