Page 17 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
"I should get back," I said reluctantly, sliding off the bar stool. "Don't want to keep people waiting."
"Of course," Dylan said, but he came around the bar instead of simply waving goodbye. "I'll walk you out."
The August heat hit us like a wall as we stepped outside and walked toward the parked tour bus. Jett stood beside it, checking something on his clipboard. He looked up as we approached.
"Jett," Dylan said with a friendly nod.
"Dylan," Jett responded, his tone neutral but not unfriendly. "How's business?"
"Can't complain. You folks have a good tour today?"
"Always do when we stop here," Jett said, then climbed aboard the bus with efficient movements that suggested our break time was officially over.
Dylan turned back to me, lowering his voice slightly. "Actually, there's something I wanted to ask you. We're having an event here Saturday evening to announce a new bourbon—just family and friends and some top vendors. Would you like to come?"
My pulse quickened. "I'd… love to."
He smiled. "Great. I'll text you the details."
As I climbed aboard the bus, I could feel Jett's eyes on me in the rearview mirror. The engine rumbled to life, and we pulled away from Goldenrod with our group of satisfied tourists chattering about their tastings.
"So," Jett said after a few minutes, his voice teasing, "sounds like you've got weekend plans."
I smiled and said nothing. But inside I was shouting,Yay. For. Me!
August 21, Thursday
fermentation profilethe combination of temperature, time, and yeast that defines a bourbon’s character
THE GRAYLexus moved through Lexington's morning traffic with its usual measured pace. I followed at what I'd convinced myself was a safe distance, two cars back in the right lane. The routine had become almost meditative over the past few days—watching Keith Banyon navigate his orderly life while I struggled to find the courage to approach him directly.
At the intersection of Versailles Road and New Circle, Keith's turn signal began blinking. I followed suit, expecting another mundane stop at the bank or coffee shop. But instead of continuing to some predictable destination, the Lexus turned into a nearly empty parking lot behind a medical building.
My stomach clenched with dread as I realized my mistake. This wasn't part of his routine—this was a trap.
I pulled into the lot anyway, having little choice now that I'd committed to the turn. Keith's car sat parked near the entrance, and as I watched through my windshield, he emerged from the driver's seat with deliberate movements that spoke of controlled anger. His arms crossed over his chest as he stared directly at my van, his expression grim and unmistakably confrontational.
There was no pretending this was a coincidence. No way to reverse course and disappear. He began striding toward me.
I sat frozen behind the wheel as he approached, my hands trembling slightly on the steering wheel. When he reached my window and gestured for me to roll it down, I had no choice but to comply.
Up close, Keith Banyon was more imposing than I'd realized. His gray eyes were sharp with intelligence and barely contained frustration, his jaw set in a hard line. Recognition dawned in his eyes as he studied my face more carefully. "Wait. You're the girl from the Red Pegasus. The one with the photograph."
I nodded mutely, my throat too tight to speak.
His anger seemed to evaporate, replaced by something closer to concern. "Why are you following me?"
"I—"
"And have you been driving past my house? Because my wife is scared to death. She's convinced we have a stalker." His expression softened slightly as he took in my obvious distress, but his tone remained firm. "What do you want from me?"
The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other as if speed could somehow make the truth less devastating. "I think you might be my father. My mother worked at the Red Pegasus thirty years ago, and you said you dated her, and I was born nine months after she left Kentucky, and—"
"Stop." Keith held up his hand, his expression shifting to something infinitely gentler. "Slow down. Breathe."
I gulped air, trying to steady myself as he processed what I'd just revealed.
"Honey," he said finally, his voice kind but firm, "I'm not your father."
