Page 20 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
"It's complicated."
"Everything with you is complicated," he said, but the edge had softened slightly. "What's this about, Bernadette?"
I took a breath, choosing my words with surgical precision. "Can I come back tomorrow? When your parents are here? I have something I need to tell all of you, and it's very, very important."
Dylan leaned back against the bar, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. I could see him trying to puzzle it out, connecting dots that didn't quite form a picture yet.
"This sounds serious."
"It is."
"Are you in trouble? Legal trouble?" Genuine concern crept into his voice. "Because if you need help—"
"I'm not in trouble," I interrupted gently. "Not that kind, anyway. But I need to talk to your family. All of you. Please."
The silence stretched between us. The couple at the retail section made their selection and approached the register. Dylan held up a finger for me to wait—and moved to process their purchase. I stepped aside, watching him interact with the customers with practiced charm, recommending complementary bottles and wrapping their selections in tissue paper.
When they left, he returned his attention to me. The wariness had intensified.
Dylan crossed his arms, defensive posture firmly in place. "Bernadette, you're going to have to give me more than this. You disappear without explanation, ignore my calls and texts, then show up asking for a family meeting?"
My hands twisted together. "I promise, once you hear what I have to say, you'll understand why I couldn't explain before."
He studied me for what felt like an eternity. I watched the internal debate play across his features—the hurt warring with curiosity, the anger competing with concern.
"Fine. I'll text you a time."
"Thank you." The words felt inadequate. "I know this is strange."
"Strange doesn't begin to cover it." Dylan's expression remained guarded.
I turned to leave, my legs feeling disconnected from my body. At the door, I paused and looked back. Dylan stood behind the bar, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher—somewhere between wariness and worry.
"Dylan?" I called softly. "I really am sorry. For everything."
He nodded once, a curt acknowledgment, then returned to polishing glasses with mechanical precision.
I stepped out into the November afternoon, the cold air hitting my flushed face like a slap. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I would detonate a bomb that would reshape all our lives.
November 20, Thursday
low floor agingaging barrels on cooler lower levels, which can slow the process
I'D CHOSENmy nicest clothes from the limited wardrobe stuffed in my van—a navy skirt that hit just below my knees, a cream blouse I'd ironed using the campground laundry room's ancient equipment, and a blazer I'd picked up at Goodwill. Looking at myself in the small mirror, I felt like a child playing dress-up in adult clothing. But this was the best I could offer for the most important meeting of my life.
The drive to Goldenrod felt endless. My hands were slick with sweat against the steering wheel. When I pulled into the parking lot, Dylan stood waiting by the entrance, his posture rigid.
"They're inside," he said without preamble, his voice cold. "Conference room."
I followed him through the tasting room I'd visited countless times, but now it felt foreign, hostile. He led me down a hallway I'd never explored, to a door marked "Private." His knock was perfunctory before he opened it.
The conference room held a long table surrounded by leather chairs. Boyd sat at the head, appearing relaxed in khakis and a sweater. Jessica perched beside him, perfectly coiffed, her expression carved from ice. Portia occupied the chair on Boyd's other side, practically vibrating with impatience.
"Well," Jessica said sharply. "Dylan said you had something urgent to discuss. We're listening."
"You're pregnant, aren't you?" Portia asked with an insolent glare.
"What? No," I said.
