Page 2 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
rickhousewarehouse where barrels of bourbon are stored for aging
THE IRISHbrogue caught in my throat halfway through explaining the fermentation process, coming out as a strangled sound that was neither authentic accent nor my regular voice. Just a garbled mess that made the family from Michigan exchange confused glances.
"Sorry, uh—" I cleared my throat and tried again. "As I was sayin', the wee beasties—I mean, the yeast—they be turnin' the sugars into—" I stopped mid-sentence, my brain suddenly blank on what yeast actually did. Something to do with alcohol? Yes, alcohol. Why couldn't I remember the most basic facts about bourbon production?
In the rearview mirror, Jett's eyes found mine. The concern written across his face made my chest tighten.
"The yeast creates alcohol during fermentation," I finished flatly, abandoning the accent altogether. "Moving on."
This was a disaster. Sunday tours were supposed to be my bread and butter—smaller groups, more intimate storytelling meant better tips. Instead, I was imploding in real time.
I gripped the microphone tighter. Focus. I just needed to focus. Deliver the lines I'd memorized months ago. Smile. Point out landmarks. Be the cheerful barmaid character everyone expected.
"Now, if ye be lookin' to yer right—" The accent slipped back in, too thick this time, almost a caricature. "To your right," I corrected quickly, "you'll see one of the original barrel—" What was the word? Warehouses? Why was every term suddenly foreign?
"Rickhouses," I said finally, hating how uncertain I sounded. "Where the bourbon ages for years. Lots of years."
Lots of years?I sounded like a kindergartener giving a book report.
A man in the front row leaned toward his wife and whispered something. She nodded, both of them now watching me with that polite wariness people reserve for situations that might go sideways.
Jett's hand moved to the gear shift as we approached the next stop, his jaw tight. He'd been unusually quiet this morning during our pre-tour checklist, letting me fumble through the inventory while he organized the cooler of bottled water and snacks. He sensed he shouldn't ask questions, but the silence between us had grown thick with unspoken worry.
"This here distillery—" I started, then stopped. Was I doing the accent or not? I'd lost track. "This distillery has been operating since—since—" The date escaped me entirely. I stared at the building we'd visited dozens of times, my mind a complete void.
"1805," Jett supplied quietly, his voice carrying just far enough for me to hear through my panicked haze.
"Right. 1805. Thank you." The words came out too fast, too desperate. I saw the couple exchange another look.
My hands trembled as I set the microphone on my lap. The bus rolled along the familiar route while my thoughts spiraled into chaos. Maybe I should just quit. Pack the van tonight and drive west until Kentucky was nothing but a mistake in my rearview mirror. Return to Arizona and find some normal job where I didn't have to pretend to be someone I wasn't. Where I wouldn't risk discovering that the man I'd been attracted to was possibly my half-brother.
Where the universe couldn't hurt me anymore because I'd already hit bottom.
I could be gone by midnight. Send Jett a text apologizing for abandoning him mid-season. Disappear before I had to face Dylan's questions or Boyd Biggs's potential paternity or any of it.
Just run.
It's what I was good at, after all. What my mother had taught me through years of moving from state to state. When things got complicated, you packed your life into boxes and started over somewhere new.
"The copper stills ye be seein'—" I attempted the brogue again, but it sounded hollow. Defeated. "The copper stills remove impurities through—through—"
Through what? Distillation? Heat? Magic? I couldn't pull a single coherent thought from the jumbled mess of my mind.
Jett caught my eye again in the mirror, his expression shifting from concerned to genuinely alarmed.
"Why don't we take an early break at the next stop?" he suggested, his tone carefully neutral. "Give everyone a chance to stretch their legs and take some photos."
I nodded, grateful beyond words for the lifeline. The customers seemed relieved too, probably eager to escape the worst tour guide in bourbon country.
As Jett guided the bus into the parking area, I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against the cool window glass. Stay or go? Run or face the truth?
The choice should've been simple. But nothing about my life had ever been simple.
I had no idea what I was going to do next.
November 3, Monday
barrel entry proofthe strength of the spirit when it is put into the barrel for aging (max 125 proof)
