Page 4 of Unravel Me

Dallas: How’d this turn into bashing ME? Sawyer’s the one being a dick throwing his weight around.

Carter: Walking into a meeting and am silencing you immature fucks.

Dallas: If by meeting he means going to Ruby’s to pick up someone to warm his bed tonight

Kinsey: Eww! Carter haven’t you slept with everyone in AR already? There can’t be anyone left for you to bang.

Dallas: I think the only free females left are Ms. Nettie and Ruby herself and neither would touch him.

They’re not completely wrong. Carter is a notorious playboy and has left a slew of broken hearts in his wake. Except, of course, the seventy-something-year-old Ms. Nettie and fifty-year-old Ruby. Ruby owns the only bar in Aspen Ridge, The Night Owl, and Carter frequents the place like he works there instead of the distillery.

Carter: Fuck you Dickhead. Those old women would be happy to have me in their beds

He’s probably not wrong. I roll my eyes.

Kinsey: Gross Carter

Liam: Wtf is wrong with all of you?

Dallas: Can we get back to Shithead being a shithead?

Me: Just get your head out of your ass Dickhead and we won’t have issues

Dallas: Bite me Sawyer you grumpy mofo

Me: Let’s go a few rounds at the gym this week huh? Might do you some good to have your ass handed to you again

Kinsey: Do you two ever stop?

Dallas: Bring it big bro. *Kiss emoji*

Liam: Don’t worry about them, Kins. You know they just need to get it out of their system. I’ll be there.

I run my hands through the short hairs of my beard and set my phone back on my desk, done with the conversation. My brother Dallas is two minutes younger than me and believe it or not, we are the closest relationship out of the five of us. We’re as thick as thieves, but driving each other fucking crazy has always been the norm. We’re fraternal twins, both of us have a short fuse and take no shit, but that’s where our similarities end. In our early teens, one heated argument got physical and we each walked away from it with black eyes, split lips, and Dallas with a chipped tooth. Surprisingly enough, our dad signed us up for boxing lessons. He said it would give us a safe outlet for our aggression and we’d learn some discipline. Now we’re nearing thirty and still knocking each other around the ring as a de-stressor and workout. Our dad called it “controlled violence.” Whatever it is, it works for us.

Being the oldest of five kids isn’t easy, especially when four of us work together at our family’s distillery. Dallas is my right-hand man at work and we go head-to-head most days. Since we’re twins, it started as a discussion about which one of us was going to take the CEO position from our father. It wasn’t much of one, though, because Dallas made it clear he didn’t wantthe pressure, even though he has fought me on every goddamn decision I’ve made over the last six months.

Liam works as our lead in quality control and carries a ton of pressure. He’s the mad scientist behind the scenes. Carter is the youngest son. It shows. Once the company boomed under our father, he created Carter’s position as a college graduation gift. Brand Ambassador. He lives for the spotlight that the rest of us can’t fucking stand.

Our family wouldn’t be complete without the youngest, though. Our sister, Kinsey, wanted nothing to do with the family business and just started her first year as a kindergarten teacher at the elementary school in town. She may be the smartest one of all for getting out and not working day in and day out with us clowns.

I check my watch and note that it’s already 7 p.m. Deciding that I’ve overstayed at work long enough, I pack up and finally head home to relax for the night. I was prepared to work long hours when I took over this position, and since no one’s at home waiting for me, I don’t mind them. It keeps me busy, and I enjoy the work.

I back my truck—a red 1990 Ford F150 that I’ve been driving since I was a teenager—into my detached garage and park it next to my motorcycle. The truck was handed down to me by my grandfather the day I got my license. It’s complete with rusted cab corners and a pretty little dent on the right side of the bed from a run-in with a mailbox when I was sixteen. With the money I’m making running the distillery, I could easily replace it, but I’m attached.

I close up the garage for the night and walk across my gravel driveway, eager to get inside. After kicking off my boots in the mudroom, I beeline straight to the kitchen to grab a beer and head for the back patio. Despite growing up in a distillery and appreciating what we create there, I’m a beer guy, and only reach for the whiskey when it’s been a shit day.

I drop down on my outdoor couch and take a long pull from the frosty beer. I relish the quiet and love late summers in Washington as the temperatures start to dip but it isn’t quite chilly yet. The piece of land that sits behind my house was one of the reasons I purchased this place. I built the wraparound porch myself to spend as much time as I could spare out here. There’s a breathtaking view of the Olympic mountains and the tall forests that lay at their feet. While the evenings are quiet and dark, it’s the mornings that I enjoy the most. Thick fog settles across the landscape, the only real sound, the rustling of trees and wildlife. When I found this house, sitting on five acres just on the edge of Aspen Ridge, I knew it was perfect.

It’s the first home I’ve ever purchased and when I saw it, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed that I didn’t have a wife by my side. There was even a time when I was convinced I knew who that woman was, but she left me a long time ago. I know without a shadow of a doubt that she was the one, and the reason I’m still single. I’ve slept around here and there but I’ve never wanted a relationship, none of them were Ivy.

While we went to school together our entire lives, we didn’t get to know each other until the sixth grade. She was late for the first day of school and walked into Mrs. Murray’s class wearing a dress that came down to her thighs, paired with leggings, ankle boots, and a thin little black tattoo choker around her dainty neck. Black hair was piled on top of her head, held by a crown of mini butterfly clips. She nervously stood at the door rubbing herhands together, unsure of where to go. Mrs. Murray directed her to the only open seat available. Right next to me.

She joined me at our desk, and I watched as she got settled with her backpack, notebooks, and colorful pencils.

“Hi, butterfly.”

“Hi. butterfly? It’s Ivy. I’m Ivy. Ivy Turner,” she stuttered nervously. I chuckled at her. She was so cute. I looked back up at all the little butterfly clips in her hair. For a reason I couldn’t understand, they suited her.

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