Page 22 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
"It's authentic period attire," I said, adjusting the corset's laces self-consciously. "For atmosphere."
"It's working." He leaned against the bar with that casual confidence I found so compelling. "Listen, I have a proposition for you."
My pulse quickened. "Oh?"
"The last day of the fall Keeneland races are this Saturday. I was wondering if you'd like to go with me."
The invitation caught me completely off guard. Keeneland was legendary—Kentucky's most prestigious racing venue, where bourbon money and thoroughbred bloodlines created a world of elegance I'd only read about.
"I'd love to," I said, then reality crashed over me. "But I have to work Saturday. Full day of tours."
Dylan's face fell slightly, but he recovered quickly. "Okay, but would you join me for a party at the Keeneland clubhouse after the last race? It's a tradition—industry people, horse owners, bourbon families. Kind of a celebration of everything that makes Kentucky special."
The clubhouse at Keeneland. I could picture it—crystal chandeliers, women in designer dresses, men in tailored suitsdiscussing million-dollar horses and vintage bourbon. It was exactly the kind of sophisticated world I'd always imagined Dylan inhabiting.
"Will your family be there?" I asked, remembering my last awkward encounter with Portia.
"Yes," Dylan said, and something in his expression grew more serious. "Actually, I've had a talk with them. Now that they understand I'm falling for you, they want to get to know you better."
I inhaled sharply. I stared at him, certain I'd misheard, but his green eyes held mine with unmistakable sincerity.
"You're... falling for me?" I managed to whisper.
"That surprises you?" He moved closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. "Bernadette, you're intelligent, beautiful, and completely unpretentious. You have this way of listening that makes people feel like they matter. Of course I'm falling for you."
The tasting room seemed to fade around us. My carefully constructed walls, built from years of protecting myself from disappointment, began to crumble.
"So will you come?" he asked, his hand briefly touching mine across the bar. "To the party?"
Caught up in the moment, overwhelmed by his confession and the intensity in his eyes, I heard myself saying, "Yes."
His smile was radiant. "Perfect. Wear that black dress you wore before. I want to show you off."
As I rejoined my tour group for the remainder of our visit, my mind spun with the implications of what had just happened. Dylan was falling for me. He wanted his family to get to know me better. I would be on his arm at one of Lexington's most exclusive social events.
The rational part of my mind whispered warnings about moving too fast, about the vast differences in our backgrounds. But for once, I silenced that voice.
October 23, Thursday
spirit lossliquid lost during barreling and aging, including through leaks and evaporation
THE AUTUMNair smelled minty clean as I drove toward Jett's farm, my van rattling slightly as I navigated the winding gravel road. Golden leaves drifted from the oak trees that lined the drive, creating a carpet of amber and rust beneath my tires. It was a perfect fall day—the kind that made Kentucky look like a postcard advertising rural paradise.
I pulled up to the farmhouse and immediately spotted the large white tent that had been erected in the meadow between the house and the distant hives. Following my suggestion, Jett had rented not just the tent but round tables and chairs that were currently stacked under the covered porch, waiting to be arranged.
"Perfect timing," Jett called from the tent entrance, looking pleased but slightly overwhelmed by the scope of the project. He wore jeans and a navy flannel shirt, his sleeves already rolled up despite the morning chill. "I was starting to wonder if I'd bitten off more than I could chew."
"This is going to be amazing," I said, surveying the setup with growing excitement. The tent was positioned perfectly to take advantage of the farm's natural beauty while maintaining a safe distance from the active hives. "Your first sold-out event—you should be proud."
We spent the next hour moving tables and chairs into the tent, arranging them in a configuration that would encourage conversation while providing plenty of space for people to move around. The physical work felt good, and I found myselfenjoying the easy rhythm we'd developed—Jett carrying the heavier items while I focused on placement and spacing.
Once the furniture was arranged, we began setting up each table with the honeybee-themed tablecloths I'd helped him order online. The cheerful yellow fabric was printed with tiny bees and wildflowers, instantly transforming the plain rental tables into something festive and charming.
"These turned out perfect," Jett said as we smoothed the tablecloths into place. "You have a good eye for this kind of thing."
The honeybee-themed paper napkins completed the look, and then came the real artistry. On each table, we arranged a wooden cutting board surrounded by small glass jars of honey in different varieties—wildflower, clover, orange blossom, and a limited-edition autumn blend that Jett had created specifically for the event. Alongside the honey, we placed thick slices of fresh bread from a local bakery, rosemary crackers that would complement the honey's sweetness, an assortment of fresh fruit, and soft cheeses that Jett had sourced from a nearby dairy.
"The combination of flavors is going to be incredible," I said, stepping back to admire our handiwork. "People are going to taste honey in ways they never imagined."
