"Are you kidding? This is the biggest scandal to hit bourbon circles in decades. Maybe ever." She pulled out her phone, swiping through what looked like notes. "Identity theft, a decades-long deception, a secret brother presumed dead. And you—you're at the center of it all."
"I'm not at the center of anything. I was just looking for my father."
"Exactly." Naomi leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "That's the human-interest angle. A daughter searching foranswers, unknowingly unraveling a twenty-eight-year-old lie. It's incredible, Bernadette. And I want to tell your story."
My stomach clenched. "I don't think—"
"I'll let you see everything before it goes to print," Naomi interrupted, her tone shifting to something more persuasive. "You'll have full approval over how you're portrayed. Nothing goes out without your permission."
"Naomi—"
"Think about it." She softened her approach, tucking away her phone. "This could be therapeutic. A chance to process everything that's happened. And it would honor your mother's memory. Ginger's story deserves to be told—how she struggled, how she protected you, how she carried her secret all those years."
The mention of my mother made my throat tighten. "I need time to think about it."
"Of course. Take all the time you need." Naomi pulled out a business card and set it on the seat between us. "But Bernadette? This story is going to be written whether you participate or not. I'll bet other outlets are already digging."
I nodded. "Several reporters have left messages, but I haven't called any of them back."
"Good. Wouldn't you rather have control over how you and your mother are portrayed?"
She stood, smoothing her coat, and walked back toward the front of the bus. Another quick kiss for Jett—longer this time—and then she was gone.
Jett caught my eye in the rearview mirror. "You okay?"
"Fine." I stared at Naomi's business card. Her contact information was printed in elegant script.
But I wasn't fine. The interaction had left me feeling unsettled, and I needed to be honest with myself about why.
Was I resistant to telling my story because it felt too raw, too personal? Because I wasn't ready to have my mother's struggles and my search dissected in a newspaper article and all over social media for strangers to consume over their morning coffee?
Or was I resistant because of who was asking?
I thought about Naomi's possessive kiss, the way she'd called Jett "babe," the casual intimacy between them. I thought about how much I'd come to rely on Jett these past months—his steady presence, his kindness, the way he always seemed to show up exactly when I needed him.
And I thought about the pang I'd felt watching Naomi kiss him. The twist in my stomach that had nothing to do with journalism or privacy concerns.
Was I saying no to the story because it was the wrong thing to do?
Or because Naomi Sook was the wrong person to do it?
I picked up the business card. The honest answer was that I didn't know. My feelings were tangled up in grief and confusion and something else I couldn't quite name.
Something that felt suspiciously like jealousy.
I shoved the card into my jacket pocket. Whatever my reasons for hesitation, I needed to sort them out before making any decisions.
Because the last thing I needed right now was to add more complications to an already complicated situation.
Especially when those complications involved feelings I had no business having for someone else's boyfriend.
December 20, Saturday
neck labela secondary label often placed on the bottle neck with special batch or brand info
NAOMI SETTLEDinto the seat across from me, her leather portfolio balanced on her lap, a small digital recorder sitting on the armrest between us. The tour bus sat empty in the parking lot. Jett had gone inside to handle paperwork and give us privacy while we talked.
"You made the right decision," Naomi said warmly "To tell your story."
