Page 5 of Bourbon Girl: part 4 of 6
When I emerged from the bathroom, Jett took one look at me and burst out laughing. "You look like you escaped from a dinner theater production of 'Oklahoma.'"
Marv looked concerned but nodded congenially. "It's catchy."
Teresa watched my reaction with barely concealed glee, clearly expecting tears, outrage, or immediate resignation.
Instead, I smoothed down the skirt and gave her a bright smile. "I think the guests will love it. Very creative thinking."
Her triumphant expression faltered. "We could only afford one costume, so you'll need to launder it frequently. Keep it looking fresh."
"No problem," I said, my smile never wavering.
I turned to Jett. "Ready?"
His mouth twitched. "Lead the way, Bar Wench Bernadette."
"You can take it down a notch," I murmured as we left the office.
"No way. Besides, you're cute."
Was he flirting? I arched an eyebrow. "Did you say I'm cute?"
He squinted. "What? No, I said you're ahoot."
My shoulders fell. "Oh." That made more sense.
October 5, Sunday
toastinggently heating the barrel before charring to bring out wood sugars and complex flavors
THE GIFTshop at Maker's Mark hummed with tourists examining bottle after bottle of wax-sealed bourbon, their voices creating a comfortable background buzz as our tour group browsed the displays. I stood near a rack of branded glasses, calculating whether I could afford even the smallest souvenir, when Jett appeared beside me with barely contained excitement.
"Bernadette," he said, his voice pitched low with obvious pride. "I want to show you something."
He led me to a special display case near the register, where a limited-edition bottle sat spotlighted like a piece of fine art. The label read "Maker's Mark Honey Reserve" in elegant script, and beneath it, smaller text proclaimed: "Featuring Award-Winning Wildflower Honey from Flannery Apiaries."
"Jett!" I gasped, genuinely delighted. "This is incredible. When did this happen?"
"They called me last week," he said, grinning like a kid who'd just won the science fair. "Apparently my honey impressed them enough at the festival that they wanted to do a limited run. Only two hundred bottles."
I stared at the price tag and nearly choked. More than I usually spent on groceries in two weeks. But seeing Jett's name associated with something this prestigious, watching the pride radiate from his usually reserved demeanor—I couldn't help myself.
"I'm buying one," I announced, already reaching for my wallet.
"You don't have to do that," Jett protested. "It's ridiculously overpriced."
"Are you kidding? This is history in the making. Besides," I added, counting out my crumpled bills, "how often do I get to drink bourbon made with honey from someone I actually know?"
The purchase left my wallet distressingly light, but the weight of the bottle in my hands felt like a small victory. Jett had earned this recognition through years of dedicated work, and I wanted to celebrate that achievement properly.
Later, as the tour bus pulled into Happy Trails' gravel entrance, I found myself reluctant to let the day end on such a high note.
"Want to join me for a taste?" I asked, holding up the bottle. "Seems wrong to let your honey bourbon go unappreciated."
Jett's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Sure. Why not?"
I retrieved two mismatched mugs from my van—one emblazoned with "World's Best Mom" that I'd given her for her birthday, the other a chipped ceramic piece I'd picked up at a gas station. Not exactly appropriate glassware for premium bourbon, but they would have to suffice.
We walked down to the small dock that jutted into the campground's lake, the wooden planks creaking softly under our feet. The water reflected the late afternoon sky, and somewhere in the distance, a loon called across the stillness.
