Page 30 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
I walked back to my van on unsteady legs, the envelope clutched against my chest like a shield. I climbed inside and sat for a long moment staring at the official laboratory seal.
With shaking hands, I tore open the envelope and pulled out the official document. The technical language blurred as my eyes scanned the page, searching for the only information that mattered.
Probability of paternity: 0%
The alleged father is excluded as the biological father of the tested child.
I exhaled slowly, the breath I'd been holding escaping in a long, shuddering sigh. Zero probability. Tom Feldon was not myfather. Another dead end, another hope extinguished, another piece of my identity puzzle that didn't fit.
October 31, Friday
barrel samplingdrawing a small amount of bourbon from the barrel for tasting or testing
THE HALLOWEENparty at Goldenrod Distillery buzzed with costumed revelry as I entered on Dylan's arm, my barmaid outfit swishing with each step across the polished hardwood floors. Orange and black decorations transformed the tasting room into something magical, with carved pumpkins casting flickering shadows and autumn leaves scattered artfully across cocktail tables.
Dylan looked devastatingly handsome in his 1920s barkeeper costume—white shirt with sleeve garters, black vest, and a bow tie that gave him the air of a prohibition-era bootlegger. His hair was slicked back with pomade, and he'd even grown a thin mustache for the occasion that made him look rakish and mysterious.
"We make quite the pair," he murmured against my ear as we paused in the doorway, his hand warm and possessive at the small of my back.
The party was already in full swing, with perhaps sixty guests in elaborate costumes mingling throughout the space. I spotted witches and vampires, superheroes and historical figures, all clutching glasses of Goldenrod's finest while a jazz trio played atmospheric music from a corner stage.
But it was the sight of Jett and Naomi near the bar that made me pause. Naomi looked stunning as a fairytale princess in a flowing blue gown with a jeweled tiara, while Jett had embraced his role as the Beast with surprising enthusiasm—complete with furry costume, fake fangs, and theatrical makeupthat transformed his familiar features into something wild and primal.
"Beauty and the Beast," Dylan observed with amusement. "Portia's idea, I'm sure. She loves themed couples."
As if summoned by his words, Portia appeared beside us in an elaborate Marie Antoinette costume, her blonde hair piled high and powdered white. She air-kissed Dylan's cheek before turning to me with polite acknowledgment.
"Bernadette. How... authentic you look."
Before I could respond, Jett approached with drinks for himself and Naomi, his Beast costume making him move with exaggerated lurching steps that drew laughter from nearby guests.
"Hey," he said to me, his voice slightly muffled by the prosthetic fangs. "Great party. Sorry about yesterday's news."
It took me a moment to realize he was referring to the DNA results. "Oh, that. Maybe things worked out exactly as they should have."
His eyes searched my face with concern. "You sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," I said, and surprised myself by meaning it. "Really."
Dylan's hand found mine, his fingers intertwining with a gesture that felt both natural and possessive. Throughout the evening, people treated us like an established couple—commenting on our coordinated costumes, including us in group conversations as a unit, assuming we'd arrived and would leave together.
The attention felt wonderful. Dylan never let go of my hand except when absolutely necessary, and even then he kept me close with a touch on my shoulder or arm around my waist. When the jazz trio switched to danceable music, he pulled me onto the makeshift dance floor with confident grace.
"You're a good dancer," I said.
"My mother insisted on lessons when I was younger. Said it was essential for business entertaining." His green eyes sparkled with mischief above his fake mustache. "I hated it then, but I'm grateful now."
As the evening progressed, the bourbon flowed freely and the conversations grew more animated. Dylan introduced me to bourbon industry colleagues, distillery owners, and local socialites, his pride in having me on his arm unmistakable. I felt like Cinderella at the ball, swept up in a world of sophistication I'd only imagined.
"Why don't you stay with me tonight?" Dylan whispered during a slow dance, his lips brushing my ear in a way that sent shivers down my spine. "I'll get a room at the Brown. Room service, champagne, no need to rush back to the campground..."
His invitation hung in the air between us, loaded with promise and possibility. I was considering it—actually weighing the pros and cons of spending the night with this handsome, charming man who clearly wanted me—when my phone rang.
The caller ID showed Suzy's name, and though my first instinct was to decline, something made me answer. I held up a finger to Dylan, then stepped away to a more quiet alcove.
"Suzy? Is everything okay?"
"Bernadette!" Her voice was slightly slurred, with party noise and music in the background. "I'm so glad you picked up! We're at my friend's Halloween party and we've had a few drinks and we were talking about theSex and the Cityreboot and how they killed off Mr. Big. Unforgivable! Anyway, something just popped into my head about your mother."
