Page 6 of Bourbon Girl, Part 2 of 6
"Just being thorough," I said quickly, folding the paper and tucking it into my purse. "Thank you so much for your help."
"Of course," Eve said slowly, her eyes studying my face with the intensity of someone who'd spent years helping people findinformation they weren't supposed to be looking for. "Good luck with the... job interview."
As I gathered my things and went to collect Poppy, I could feel Eve's gaze following me across the library. The address burned like a secret in my purse, and I wondered if I was brave enough to use it.
August 6, Wednesday
closed fermentera fermentation vessel with a sealed lid to reduce contamination
MY STOMACHfluttered with nervous energy as our group approached Goldenrod Distillery. I'd been looking forward to seeing Dylan again since Monday's private tasting, replaying our conversation and the way his eyes had lit up when I'd correctly identified the bourbon's flavor notes.
But now, standing outside the rustic building with its weathered wooden sign, I felt suddenly awkward and uncertain. What if Monday had been just professional courtesy? What if I'd imagined the connection between us, the warmth in his voice when he'd said I had a natural palate?
"You folks go ahead," I told my tour group—eight retirees from Michigan who were more interested in air conditioning than bourbon education. "I'll catch up in just a minute."
They shuffled toward the entrance, fanning themselves with brochures and complaining good-naturedly about the heat. I lingered outside, smoothing my hair and checking my reflection in the tasting room's large windows.
That's when I saw them.
Dylan stood behind the bar, leaning forward with his elbows on the polished wood surface, completely absorbed in conversation with a stunning blond woman. She was probably my age, with the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genes and expensive grooming—smooth golden hair that caught the light, perfect posture, clothes that looked like they'd been tailored for her willowy frame.
They were laughing at something, their heads tilted toward each other in the intimate way of people who shared inside jokes. The woman gestured with graceful hands as she spoke, and Dylan's face was animated with genuine delight, the same expression I'd foolishly thought was reserved for our private moments.
My chest tightened with the sharp recognition of being the outsider looking in at something I could never be part of. The woman at the bar was clearly from his world—polished, sophisticated, the kind of person who knew which fork to use at fancy dinners and could discuss wine vintages without consulting Google.
I backed away from the window, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. How naive could I be? Monday's tasting had probably been nothing more than Dylan being polite to a frequent customer, the kind of professional courtesy he extended to anyone who showed genuine interest in the family business.
I returned to the bus where Jett sat reading something on his phone, country music playing softly from the radio.
"That was quick," he observed, glancing up as I settled into my usual seat. "Not going to say hello to loverboy?"
The teasing comment hit like salt in an open wound. "Mind your own Naomi—" I caught myself, heat flooding my face. "I mean, mind your own business."
Jett's eyebrows shot up, and I could see him fighting back a grin in the rearview mirror. "Trouble in paradise?"
"There was never any paradise," I muttered. Later as we pulled away from Goldenrod, I watched in the side mirror as the distillery disappeared behind us, taking with it whatever foolish fantasies I'd been nurturing about Dylan's interest in me.
August 7, Thursday
wild yeastnaturally occurring yeast in the environment, sometimes used for unique flavors
THE MAPSnavigation guided me through progressively narrower streets lined with towering oak trees. Each turn took me deeper into a neighborhood that whispered old money and established roots—the kind of place where families had lived for generations and mailboxes bore surnames that appeared on street signs and hospital wings.
Keith Banyon's address led me to Ashland Avenue, where historic homes sat back from the street like gracious dowagers, each one unique but harmonious with its neighbors. I slowed to a crawl, reading house numbers etched into stone pillars and wrought iron gates until I found the one I was looking for.
The house took my breath away.
It wasn't the largest on the street, but it possessed an elegance that spoke of careful restoration and unlimited resources. Built of warm honey-colored brick with white trim and black shutters, it featured the kind of architectural details that modern construction couldn't replicate—carved stone lintels above tall windows, a slate roof that had weathered to soft gray-green, and a wraparound porch supported by graceful columns.
But it was the landscaping that truly transformed the property into something magical. Every inch of the front yard had been designed with an artist's eye—sweeping beds of hostas and ferns beneath the mature trees, explosions of colorful annuals bordering the curved walkway, and climbing roses that cascaded over a pergola near the front entrance. The scent ofjasmine and gardenias drifted through my open window, sweet and intoxicating in the humid air.
This was the kind of home I'd dreamed about as a child, moving from one temporary apartment to another with my anxious mother. I'd imagined living somewhere permanent, somewhere beautiful, where I could plant flowers and know I'd be there to see them bloom.
I pulled Ginger to the curb across the street, the van's engine ticking as it cooled. The contrast between my rust-spotted, dented home and the manicured perfection surrounding me couldn't have been starker. I might as well have parked a carnival ride in the middle of a museum.
Movement caught my eye near the side of the house. A slender woman in khaki gardening pants and a wide-brimmed straw hat emerged from behind a trellis of climbing hydrangeas, carrying a watering can and pruning shears. She moved with the confident efficiency of someone who knew every plant in the garden, stopping to deadhead spent blooms and adjust a drooping stem.
Was this Keith's wife? I studied her profile as she worked, trying to imagine what it would be like to call this place home, to wake up every morning surrounded by such carefully tended loveliness.
