"Thanks anyway," I felt compelled to add.
"No problem."
"I had a wonderful time. Thank you for including me."
He smiled. "Merry Christmas, Bernadette."
"Merry Christmas, Jett." I climbed down and closed the door.
He rolled down the window. "I have an early morning bourbon chore tomorrow before the tours begin. Wanna come?"
"Sounds intriguing. Sure."
"Pick you up at 7."
I winced. "Okay."
He laughed, then drove away. I hoisted myself into the van, instantly surrounded by the scent of rosemary from the little Christmas tree. Then I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell asleep fingering the Kentucky charm on the necklace Jett had given me.
December 26, Friday
presentation boxa custom box or sleeve used for limited or premium releases
THE PARKINGlot of Buffalo Trace Distillery was already crowded when we arrived at seven-thirty in the morning. The early morning cold cut through every layer I wore. A line of bourbon enthusiasts stretched from the gift shop entrance, their breath forming clouds, everyone huddled up against the freezing temperature.
"I can't believe people are already here," I said, watching Jett find a spot at the back of the line.
"Eagle Rare 25 doesn't come around often." His eyes gleamed with the excitement of a treasure hunter on the verge of a major find. "Some people probably camped out overnight."
"For bourbon?"
"Not just bourbon. Eagle Rare 25 is like finding a unicorn."
I nodded, pretending to understand. I'd lain awake most of last night replaying the offer Jett had made to spend the night at his house. But I concluded I'd made the right decision.
I couldn't let myself get too emotionally invested. I was leaving Kentucky in four days. Going back to Arizona to rebuild a life that didn't include a sweet beekeeper who made my heart race.
The line grew longer behind us. People chatted amiably, sharing bourbon stories and comparing notes on previous rare releases. The camaraderie reminded me of the tours I'd been giving for six months—this shared passion that transcended age, background, economic status.
"Cold?" Jett asked, settling his arm around my shoulder.
"Not anymore," I said, snuggling against him.
At exactly nine o'clock, the gift shop doors opened. The line surged forward with organized chaos, everyone moving quickly but politely. This was serious business, conducted with the etiquette of people who understood the unspoken rules.
Inside, the gift shop was a bourbon lover's paradise—bottles lining every shelf, merchandise bearing the Buffalo Trace name, the warm scent of wood and spice in the air. But everyone headed straight for the counter where a limited number of Eagle Rare 25 bottles sat, their distinctive packaging promising something extraordinary.
Jett reached the counter, presented his ID, and purchased his bottle with the reverence of someone handling a holy relic. The cashier wrapped it carefully, and Jett clutched it like a newborn.
"Got it," he said, his grin transforming his entire face. "I actually got it."
"How much did that cost?" I asked as we made our way back outside.
"Don't ask." But he was still grinning. "This is an investment. Something I can save for a special occasion. Or maybe I'll never open it—just knowing I have it is enough."
I watched him carefully place the bottle in his truck, securing it with a blanket so it wouldn't roll, and marveled at the level of care and passion.
"Bourbon really does mean something here, doesn't it?" I said as we drove away from Buffalo Trace.
