October 29, Wednesday
wood extractives flavor compounds pulled from the oak, such as vanillin and tannins
THE TOUR bus pulled into Goldenrod's parking lot as the October afternoon sun cast long shadows across the weathered brick buildings.
My group of bourbon enthusiasts from Tennessee chatted excitedly about their final tasting of the day, their voices carrying the cheerful fatigue of people who'd been thoroughly educated about Kentucky's liquid heritage.
The group dispersed toward the tasting room with the eager anticipation of people who'd been saving the best for last, leaving me to gather my notes and prepare for what had become the highlight of each visit to Goldenrod—seeing Dylan behind the bar, his face lighting up when our eyes met across the crowded room.
Sure enough, as I pushed through the heavy wooden doors, Dylan looked up from polishing glasses and his expression immediately transformed with unmistakable pleasure.
He wore a deep green button-down that brought out his eyes, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that had gained definition from hours of lifting cases and operating equipment.
"Bernadette," he called out, setting down his polishing cloth and moving toward me with that confident stride I'd come to associate with him. "Perfect timing. How was your day?"
"So far, so good," I said with a smile, settling onto my usual stool at the far end of the bar where we could talk without disrupting the tour group's tasting experience.
Dylan leaned against the bar with casual intimacy, "I have something that might put an even bigger smile on your face."
I felt my pulse quicken with anticipation. "Oh?"
"Goldenrod's hosting a Halloween party Friday night. Staff, friends, industry people—casual but fun. Wanna come?"
The invitation sent warmth flooding through my chest. "I'd love to," I said, then reality crashed over me. "But I don't have any costumes except this barmaid outfit I'm wearing for work."
Dylan's grin widened with obvious delight. "Perfect. You look incredible in that costume. I'll come as a bartender to match your theme."
The thought of Dylan in period costume, playing the role of my frontier bartender counterpart, made me laugh with genuine pleasure. "A matched set. I like it."
"It'll be fun," he said, his voice taking on a more intimate tone as he leaned closer. "Good music, great bourbon, dancing. And maybe..." He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. "Maybe it'll be a night full of treats."
The implication in his words was unmistakably clear, sending heat rushing to my cheeks despite the tasting room's cool air. The promise in his voice, the way his gaze lingered on my lips, left no doubt about what kind of treats he had in mind.
"Dylan," I said, fighting back a smile while trying to look stern. "Stop flirting. We're both working."
"You're right," he said, straightening but not bothering to hide his amused satisfaction at my reaction. "Completely unprofessional of me."
But even as he moved away to attend to my tour group, refilling their glasses and explaining the nuances of their bourbon flight, I caught him glancing my way with that same promising smile.
Friday night couldn't come soon enough.