Page 6 of Bourbon Girl: part 5 of 6
Dylan's attention snapped to Jett. "Stay out of this."
"I don't think I will." Jett moved slightly, positioning himself between Dylan and me. The gesture was subtle but unmistakable. "She's asked you to leave it alone. So leave it alone."
"This is between me and Bernadette."
"And she's already given you her answer." Jett's tone carried a warning edge I'd never heard before. "You need to respect that and walk away."
Dylan's hands curled into fists at his sides. For a moment, I thought he might actually throw a punch at Jett. Instead, he took a step backward, his expression shifting from anger to something closer to betrayal as he stared at me.
"Fine," he said coldly. "If that's how you want it."
He turned and stalked back toward the distillery. The door slammed behind him with enough force to send leaves swirling along the sidewalk.
I exhaled shakily, my legs suddenly unsteady. Jett's hand appeared at my elbow, steadying me.
"You alright?"
I shook my head. Nothing about this was alright. I'd just destroyed whatever fragile connection Dylan and I had built, and I couldn't even explain why.
November 6, Thursday
barrel rotationthe practice of moving barrels within the rickhouse to ensure even aging
THE KNOCKon my van door came just as I was collecting leftover bread from my tiny pantry to feed the fish. Through the small window, I saw Jett standing outside, hands shoved in his jacket pockets against the November chill.
I opened the door, surprised. "Hey."
"Hey yourself." He shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "Bad time?"
"I was about to feed the fish." I grabbed my jacket from a hook. "Want to come with?"
Relief crossed his face. "Sure."
We walked in comfortable silence down the familiar path toward the dock, dried leaves crunching beneath our feet. The campground was quiet on a Thursday afternoon—most of the seasonal campers had already headed south for winter, leaving behind empty lots and covered picnic tables. The shallow lake stretched before us, its surface smooth as glass under the gray sky.
I stood against the railing and opened the container, sprinkling crumbs across the water. Within seconds, silvery fish appeared, creating ripples as they surfaced to feed. Jett stood beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
We watched the fish for a few minutes, the repetitive motion of feeding them oddly soothing. But I could sense Jett building up to something, the way tension gradually crept into his posture.
"Bernadette." His voice was gentle but serious. "What's going on with you?"
My hand paused over the container. "What do you mean?"
"Come on. The last few days—forgetting your lines on Sunday, avoiding Dylan, that whole confrontation yesterday." He turned to look at me directly. "Something's wrong. Really wrong."
The concern in his eyes undid me. The tears I'd been holding back for days suddenly blurred my vision.
"Boyd Biggs might be my father," I whispered.
Jett went completely still. The words hung in the cold air between us.
"What?"
"My mother's friend remembered his name. Boyd Biggs. He worked in bourbon when my mother knew him, and the timing—" My voice broke. "The timing lines up. Which means Dylan—"
"Could be your half-brother."
I nodded.
