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  The Simple Life

  Copyright © 2018 Tara Sivec

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notice

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter may not be appropriate for minors. All trademarks and copyrighted items mentioned are the property of their respective owners.

  Edits by KD Robichaux

  www.facebook.com/AuthorKDRobichaux

  Interior Design by Paul Salvette, BB eBooks

  bbebooksthailand.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  A Note to Readers

  Prologue

  1. Shitty Life

  2. WTF Life

  3. Sticky Life

  4. Pouting Life

  5. Bullshit Life

  6. Sugar High Life

  7. Past Life

  8. Maple Inn Life

  9. Drunk Life

  10. Chump Life

  11. Jerk Life

  12. Regretful Life

  13. Twilight Zone Life

  14. Cotton Candy Life

  15. Stalker Life

  16. Honest Life

  17. Fishing Boat Life

  18. Baggage Life

  19. Cheesy Life

  20. Boner Life

  21. Pantry Life

  22. Family Life

  23. Love Life

  24. Doomed Life

  25. Pros and Cons Life

  26. Simple Life

  Epilogue: Clint

  Epilogue: Brooklyn

  Recipes

  A NOTE TO READERS

  Ever since my first book, I’ve wanted to write about a character who owned a pumpkin farm. My grandparents owned the most well-known pumpkin farm in our area back in the day.

  I pretty much grew up on it since my parents and all of my extended family worked there.

  I have so many amazing memories growing up on this farm, and I used a lot of them in The Simple Life. This is 100% why Halloween is my favorite holiday, and fall is my favorite time of year. Please note: White Timber, Montana is not a real place. Don’t try to find it on a map to hunt down Clint, Brooklyn, and the rest of this crazy group of people.

  I hope you enjoy this trip down memory lane for me, and laugh your ass off!

  *Painting of my grandparent’s farmhouse.

  Prologue

  My life is amazing.

  I seriously want to pinch myself right now just to make sure I’m not dreaming. I’ve lived in New York City ever since I left home to go to college twelve years ago, but I can honestly say I have never loved this place more than I do right now. I have never loved my life more than I do in this moment, standing on a rooftop bar in the heart of Manhattan, looking out at the lights from the city, stretching as far as the eye can see. It’s the end of April, and the first nice night of weather we’ve had since the winter that seemed like it would never end.

  With a name like Brooklyn, it’s no wonder I was obsessed with New York ever since I was a little girl and first found out I was named after a city here. I said goodbye to my weekly loans of all things Judy Blume and the Sweet Valley High Twins at the library, and said hello to every book I could find about the city that never sleeps. Growing up in the small town of White Timber, Montana, with a population of less than 1,000 people, I was fascinated by the fact that you could find things to do at all hours of the night in New York, and that you could walk the same city block every day at the exact same time for years and never see the same person twice.

  In White Timber, everything shuts down at 5:00 p.m. sharp, every day of the week. If you realize you need milk at 5:05 on a Wednesday night, you should probably go out in a field somewhere and find a cow to milk. And since “downtown” White Timber pretty much consists of not much more than five blocks, you will definitely see the same people every day, who will stop and tell you the same stories you’ve heard a hundred times before.

  When I was a teenager, I spent every waking moment dreaming about leaving that tiny town and moving to this big city where no one would remember that one time my freshman year of high school when I ran across the football field with the other cheerleaders, as well as the entire football team, at the start of the big homecoming game. I tripped over someone’s foot at the fifty-yard line and landed flat on my face in front of the entire marching band, who had formed two lines for us to run between. That damn trip caused a domino effect with the football players who were running right behind us. I wound up at the bottom of a sweaty football player pile, and the town never forgot.

  “Remember that time you ate grass at the homecoming game, Brooklyn? Boy was that hilarious!”

  Yes, Susan, yes I do remember, because if was the most mortifying moment of my life. Thanks for bringing it up for the seventeenth time this week. And tell your shit stick nephew who played the trumpet that maybe he should have learned some manners and helped me up instead of just standing there, pointing and laughing at me.

  Thinking about my hometown always puts me in a crap mood, and now is not the time for crap moods. I shake it off, and stare out at the sparkling skyline, thankful that I’m here and not there. I have an amazing job, amazing friends, and an amazing boyfriend. I really need to find another adjective other than amazing, but I’m too happy sipping expensive champagne, and schmoozing with the who’s-who of New York to bother.

  “I think I just saw Brad Pitt. God, we have the best jobs in the world.”

  I turn away from the view of Manhattan to smile at my co-worker and friend, Nicole, who snags a glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter and then gently clinks it against my own glass.

  “I did all my research earlier today, and I’ve already written almost the entire article. All I have left to do is add a few things about the ambiance, what food and drinks were served, and throw in the quote I got from the owner right when I arrived, and it’s finished. I basically have nothing to do the rest of the night but drink,” I tell her with a smile.

  “And I just finished taking the last of my photos,” she adds. “I can’t believe we get paid for this shit.”

  I nod in agreement, the word “amazing” floating around in my head all over again. Nicole and I both work at Glitz, the largest fashion magazine in the world, whose headquarters are here in New York. I’m what you’d call an “It Girl.” I get invited to all the best places in the city. All the best restaurant openings, all the best club openings, every after party for Fashion Week, and anything else you can think of or might see on E! News during the weekend update.

  I get invited, I get photographed walking the red carpet, Nicole takes photos of the event, and I write up an article about it. Not to pat myself on the back or anything, but everyone knows who I am at these events. They know they need to be nice to me and show me a good time if they want me to write a glowing article about their establishment or their event. I get to stuff my face full of expensive food and drinks for free, hang out with famous peopl
e, write a thousand-word article about it that takes me no time at all, and get paid handsomely for it. Tonight, we’re celebrating the grand opening of a new rooftop bar on top of a hotel in the heart of Manhattan.

  Say it with me: Amazing.

  “I thought tonight might finally be the night I get to meet Stephen,” Nicole states with a questioning raise of one perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

  “He had a last minute conference call with Japan and couldn’t get away.” I shrug.

  I keep my smile firmly in place even though this might be the one part about my life that isn’t amazing. Not Stephen himself. He’s the best boyfriend I’ve ever had. He’s thoughtful, generous, romantic, and doesn’t try to change anything about me. The only slight little snag in our relationship is how he cancels our plans at the last minute more times than not. And I refuse to be one of those whiny, clingy women who constantly complains about something like this. He cancels on me because of his job, not because he wants to hang out with his friends instead or some other bullshit excuse. His job is very important, and I totally get that. It just sucks that we’ve been dating for six months, and every time I make plans for him to finally meet one of my friends, something comes up.

  At thirty, I’ve dated my fair share of losers and douchebags over the years. Every guy I’ve ever dated, I’ve met while working. Since I’m out on the town pretty much every night of the week, it’s really the only opportunity I have to meet someone. I don’t have time for dating apps, I’m always in too big of a rush when I’m grocery shopping to even glance at a guy in the frozen food section, hoping for a love connection over a Lean Cuisine, and I refuse to ever go on another blind date after the one Nicole set me up on two years ago. I stupidly let the guy come up to my apartment after dinner to use the bathroom, and he shit his brains out, overflowing my toilet, and used one of my good towels to wipe his ass, scurrying out of my apartment without so much as a “I had a great time tonight. Sorry I left my shit all over your bathroom floor!”

  The only guys I meet at work functions are trust fund babies, who will never have to work a day in their life and don’t understand why I can’t just blow off a work party to go hang out in the Hamptons on their daddy’s yacht.

  Which is why I appreciate my relationship with Stephen so much and don’t want to do anything to ruin it, like stomp my foot and complain that, at this rate, the first time my friends will meet him will be at our wedding. He made a comment the other night about a certain purchase he made at a jewelry store he found in Paris when he was there last month for a work trip, and I’ve been freaking out ever since, just waiting for him to pop the question. I thought tonight would be the night, at this beautiful rooftop bar with the glow of the city lights all around us, but I guess not.

  I know we’ve only been together for six months, but when you know you’ve found the right person, you just know. Stephen Goodwin is thirty-nine, and it’s the first time I’ve ever dated someone that much older than me. I want to kick myself in the ass for not doing it sooner. He’s mature, well established with a wonderful job working as a trader on Wall Street, and owns the most beautiful penthouse I’ve ever seen. He’s worked tirelessly to get where he is today. It wasn’t just handed to him like so many of the other guys I’ve dated. He understands hard work, and he never cares how many nights a week I’m at clubs on the Upper East Side to interview an up-and-coming DJ, or hanging out with the rich and famous at a gastro pub in the West Village. He gets it, because he works just as hard, if not harder than I do. I just wish I could spend more time with him.

  All of a sudden, the low hum of conversation all around us comes to an abrupt halt, replaced by the loud screeching of a very unhappy woman.

  “Let go of my arm and let me through! I know she’s in here!”

  Nicole and I both crane our necks around the small crowds of people on the roof, trying to see what’s happening. Everyone around us is pointing and whispering at the woman being held back by security, who stands right at the elevator that brings you from the lobby of the hotel straight up to the rooftop bar.

  She’s beautiful in a Barbie doll sort of way. Long, poker-straight blonde hair, tiny waist, and big boobs. She’s dressed in a pair of dark, designer skinny jeans, a form-fitting purple, silk sleeveless blouse that I saw on the Dolce and Gabbana runway this past spring, and a nude pair of Jimmy Choo heels I instantly recognize. Stephen just bought me that same pair last week, and I’m wearing them right now. Even though this woman is still shouting and causing a commotion, I feel bad for her. She has good taste in fashion. If she wants to have a few drinks because one of her friends is here or whatever, they should let her in.

  After a few tense moments where she finally lowers her voice and talks rationally to the security guard manning the elevator, he gives her a terse nod and lets go of her arm. Sadly, he points toward the elevator and my shoe twin is clearly being told to leave.

  The blonde lowers her head dejectedly and starts to turn toward the elevator. Conversation around us resumes, and I open my mouth to tell Nicole I need to find a place to sit down, because as beautiful as these Jimmy Choo’s are, they’re killing my feet.

  “Holy shit!” a guy sitting on one of the outdoor couches next to us shouts.

  My poor feet groan in protest as, once again, I look toward the elevator just in time to see Fight Club Barbie throw her fist right into the security guard’s stomach before racing around him, shoving people out of the way as she goes.

  “I hope you’re taking notes. This has to go in this month’s magazine,” Nicole says excitedly, her camera already yanked out of the bag on her shoulder and held up to her eye. The click of the shutter goes a mile a minute as she chronicles everything happening on the other side of the roof.

  I start to laugh until I realize the blonde is heading right in our direction. And her eyes seem to be locked on me.

  “I think that’s Felicity Kennedy. When did she go from brunette to blonde? Do you know her?” Nicole asks, slowly lowering the camera from her face, noticing this crazy woman is charging right for me, and I’m not just imagining the look of murder in her eyes.

  “No! I mean, I don’t think we’ve ever met. She’s probably not looking at me. She’s probably looking at someone behind me.”

  Nicole and I both quickly glance over our shoulders, and I realize there is no one behind me, because we’re standing right by the glass railing at the edge of the roof.

  So much for that idea.

  Felicity Kennedy is one of the most popular socialites in New York City. And yes, she’s one of those Kennedys. She obviously comes from old money that she likes to flaunt and blow all over the city, and compared to her, calling me an “It Girl” is like calling The Empire State Building a shack.

  For years, she was on the cover of every tabloid magazine week after week for making poor choices and partying too hard, until about ten years ago when she made a statement that she ran away and got married in a private ceremony. Her new husband was an average, every-day guy who didn’t want to be in the limelight, and she asked for everyone to respect their privacy. The paparazzi pretty much laughed in her face and spent years trying to get a photo of them together and figure out who the guy was, but the joke was on them. They have never been spotted in public together, aside from one grainy photo someone snapped with their cellphone at the airport six years ago, of Felicity and some guy leaving the airport. He was hidden behind a big floppy hat, huge sunglasses, and a trench coat with the collar popped up to cover the rest of his face. No one even knows if that was really her husband or not. There have been rumors from day one that they don’t even live together.

  It’s all very strange and the source of so much gossip it’s not even funny. Some people think she just told people she got married instead of admitting she left the country to go to rehab. Some think she married her cousin and that’s why everything about them is so hush-hush, because eeeeew. And my absolute favorite rumor—that Kurt Cobain is still alive, they met in a di
ve bar where he was in disguise playing new music he’d been writing since he faked his own death, and they have to keep their marriage a secret because Courtney Love would murder them both in a jealous rage. It’s my favorite, because who wouldn’t want to hear new Kurt Cobain music?

  The crowd is now parting for Felicity as people start to recognize her, and she continues making a beeline straight for me. There are camera shutters clicking all around us from other news outlets, as well as people holding up their cellphones and recording videos for Snapchat and wherever else they feel like sharing them. I quickly start to panic when I realize that whatever is about to happen, it’s going to happen all over social media.

  “She probably has me confused with someone else,” I whisper to Nicole hopefully as Felicity finally gets to us and stops two feet in front of me.

  Her nostrils are flaring, and her eyes scan me from head to toe like she’s trying to figure out the best way to slice off my skin and wear it as a dress.

  “Are you Brooklyn Manning?” Felicity asks through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, shit,” Nicole mutters next to me.

  It’s fine. Everything is fine. Maybe I accidentally took a taxi she was waiting for earlier. Or maybe she’s friends with someone I wrote about in one of my articles, and I’m confusing her “I’m going to slit your throat” face with her “Just wanted to meet you and say thanks” face. It’s an honest mistake. Plenty of New Yorkers always look pissed at the world. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for why she crashed this party to find me.

  “Um, yes. I’m Brooklyn Manning. It’s nice to meet you Miss Kennedy…” I trail off, waiting for her to give me some sort of clue about what she wants with me.

  “It’s Mrs.,” she seethes, as she continues glaring at me. “Mrs. Stephen Kennedy-Goodwin. I believe you’ve been fucking my husband for the last six months.”

  There’s a collective gasp that echoes from everyone standing within earshot. I don’t even have time to let her words penetrate my brain and my heart, or the fact that everyone around us is losing their shit that this woman has finally gone public with who her husband is. Her fist comes flying at my face faster than a herd of women shoving through the doors of a designer clothing store during a sample sale.