Page 21 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
"Not with my child," Dylan said quickly.
"I'm not pregnant," I repeated. I remained standing, my hands clasped in front of me to hide their trembling. Dylan moved to stand near his mother, creating a united front of Biggs family members waiting for my explanation.
"Thank you for meeting with me." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I appreciate you making time."
"Get to the point," Portia snapped.
I took a breath. "My mother passed away almost a years ago. Before she died, she told me my father worked in the bourbon industry. That was all I knew until recently, when her friend remembered more details."
Boyd's expression remained neutral, politely interested. Jessica's eyes narrowed.
"Her friend remembered that my mother met a man named Biggs at a bourbon industry event in late 1997. They had a relationship. I was born in August 1998." I forced myself to look directly at Boyd. "I believe you could be my biological father."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Then everything erupted at once.
"What?" Dylan's voice cracked. His face had gone pale, his eyes wide with horror as he looked from me to his father.
"This is insane!" Portia leaped to her feet. "You can't just waltz in here and claim to be—"
"Boyd?" Jessica's voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a blade. "Boyd, what is she talking about?"
But Boyd remained calm, almost eerily so. His eyes studied me with detached curiosity, as if I were a mildly interesting puzzle rather than a potential daughter.
Dylan backed toward the wall, his expression devastated. I watched realization crash over him—all those moments between us, the growing feelings. The horror on his face was a knife to my chest.
Jessica turned her icy attention back to me. "I've heard everything in this business—every scheme, every con. This is a new low." She laughed, the sound bitter and sharp. "How much money do you want? Is that what this is? Blackmail?"
"No!" The word burst out desperately. "This isn't about money. I just want to know the truth."
"The truth," Portia spat, "is that you're a nobody tour guide trying to worm your way into our family. Trying to get your hands on—"
"Enough." Boyd's single word silenced his daughter. He stood slowly, his movements controlled and precise. "I'm not your father, Bernadette."
I slid a paper across the table. "I had facial DNA analysis done. It says we're related."
He glanced at the paper, then scoffed. "This isn't science. Besides, I'm happy to take a paternity test to prove it," he continued calmly. "In fact, we should do it now. Settle this immediately."
Jessica's mouth fell open. "Boyd, you can't be serious—"
"I'm completely serious." He pulled out his phone, already scrolling through contacts. "There's a private clinic outside Louisville that handles these matters discreetly."
My mind reeled. Why would he volunteer so readily if there was any possibility I was right?
"I don't even remember your mother," Boyd said, barely glancing up from his phone. "What did you say her name was?"
"Ginger. Ginger Waters."
He shook his head, still scrolling. "Doesn't ring a bell." He finally looked at me directly, his expression almost pitying. "I'm sorry you've lost your mother. I'm sorry you're searching for answers. But I'm not the answer you're looking for." He turned to speak into the phone.
The words gutted me. The casual dismissal, the complete lack of recognition. Had I built this entire theory on coincidence and wishful thinking? Had the facial recognition been wrong?
"The clinic can see us in an hour," Boyd announced, ending the call. He held up his phone to me. "Here's the address."
"Boyd, this is ridiculous," Jessica said, her voice strained. "You don't need to—"
"Yes, I do." His tone brooked no argument. "This young woman has convinced herself I'm her father based on a friend's fuzzy memory and some pseudoscience scam. The kindest thing I can do is prove definitively that she's mistaken so she can move on with her life."
