The Simple Life

by Tara Sivec

  Brooklyn’s hands are still resting on top of the fence on either side of her hips, and even though she’s being a smartass, her chest starts moving up and down faster with our close proximity, making my eyes trail down to her tits, straining against the tight cotton material of her fitted, dark green Hastings Farm T-shirt.

  Note to self: Tell Ember to design V-neck shirts. Ones that are indecently low cut so I can get a better look at Brooklyn’s cleavage.

  “I don’t remember you complaining the other day when I was between your thighs,” I reply, my thumbs tracing tiny, soft circles over the tops of her legs.

  “Well, I am a homewrecker. So clearly I’m all about that shit.”

  She tries to make a joke, and even smirks at me, but I can hear the hurt in her voice, and I curse myself a thousand times for saying such stupid shit to her. But I like the fact that she isn’t going to let this go with one apology and a make-out session. I like that she’s going to make me work for it. I don’t want her to be complacent and just let me get away with it when I’m being an asshole.

  “I knew from the minute that story broke it wasn’t true, and it took everything in me not to book a flight to New York and beat the shit out of that asshole for putting you through that,” I tell her honestly.

  It’s time to lay all my cards on the table once and for all. If she doesn’t fully understand how long I’ve had a thing for her, and that my feelings are growing stronger by the minute, there’s no way in hell I’ll ever have a shot at convincing her there could be something more between us than sarcasm and insults.

  “Oh, okay. Suuure,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “So, you’re suddenly a badass cowboy who owns a farm, and you think you’re knight in shining armor material?”

  “You’re picturing me on a horse right now, aren’t you? Like that majestic Old Spice commercial, where the buff guy isn’t wearing a shirt,” I tease.

  Her eyes move away from mine to stare off into the distance with a dreamy smile on her face.

  “He was pretty hot. He had superb abs.” She sighs.

  Inching forward between her legs, I don’t stop until the fucking bulge that won’t quit is pressed right up against the seam of her shorts, sliding my palms over the top of her thighs to the outside of them. Gliding my hands up her legs higher, I continue sliding them up, over the material of her shorts and around her hips until I’m cupping her ass. Clutching that fine thing in my hands, I jerk it forward slightly, just enough for her to bump tightly up against me. She lets out a little whimper, her hands flying off the fence railing to wrap around my upper arms and hold herself steady.

  “I’m hotter,” I inform her quietly, our mouths just a few centimeters apart.

  It is taking all of my willpower right now not to kiss the hell out of her again, but it’s broad daylight, and we’re in the middle of the front yard where anyone can see us. What we’re doing right now would be enough to get tongues wagging in this town for the next century if someone sees us. Plus, I don’t want her to think this is the only thing I care about.

  After a few quiet minutes of neither one of us moving, I finally remove my hands from her ass. I bring them up between us and rest my palms against the sides of her neck, pressing my thumbs against her cheeks and holding her face in place so she won’t look away from me.

  “I know you. Better than anyone. Even though we haven’t seen each other in a while, I still know you,” I tell her quietly. “You would never set out to ruin a marriage. That’s not who you are.”

  I watch her eyes cloud with tears as she stares at me, and she quickly blinks them away.

  “Oh yeah, who am I?” she whispers.

  “You’re a pain in my ass. But fighting with you every day for a month has made me happier than getting along with someone else all my life. You drive me crazy, you turn me on more than any woman I’ve ever known, and you make me laugh. You’re stubborn, and smart, and strong, and independent, and you are not a homewrecker.”

  I finally see a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

  “So, this is what we’re doing now? We’re being nice to each other? That’s gonna grow old really fast,” she teases.

  “Fuck no. Let me amend that previous statement. You are, in fact, a wrecker of homes. Have you seen my kitchen from this morning? It looks like a tornado went through there, only blowing around flour, sugar, eggs, and some kind of bright orange and yellow batter all over the counters and kitchen cabinets. I found candy corn stuck to the ceiling.”

  “That is not my fault!” she argues. “Mia wanted candy corn cupcakes. I didn’t know five-year-olds didn’t have the dexterity to use a handheld mixer. Honestly, what have you been teaching that kid all these years? She is an awful baker.”

  I laugh and shake my head at her.

  “Go on a date with me tomorrow night.”

  She can’t hide the happiness on her face, even though she tries as hard as possible.

  “Oh my. A date with Clint Hastings. What should I wear?” she asks with feigned, wide-eyed excitement. “Eh, it probably doesn’t matter. He’ll just talk my ear off about nerdy computer stuff and put me to sleep.”

  Shifting my hips between her thighs, she lets out a little gasp, her fingers clutching tighter to my arms.

  “Wear something sexy that shows off your killer fucking legs. And don’t worry, there won’t be any sleeping involved.”

  Chapter 17

  Fishing Boat Life

  I am such a coward.

  Every word Clint said to me at the farm yesterday has been echoing around in my head continuously for the last twenty-four hours.

  “Fighting with you every day for a month has made me happier than getting along with someone else all my life.”

  Goddamn him for making me swoon.

  He never even tried to brush off that whole thing about my name being his password and our picture being his wallpaper as no big deal. I probably would have lied and told him I’d been hacked and he should call the computer police. And even though he never came right out and said he’s had a thing for me all these years, that whole, “Come on, Brooklyn, you’re smarter than that,” comment he made when I asked him why, was pretty much his way of shouting it at the top of his lungs.

  And I just stood there, like a tool, and never told him I felt the same way all this time. Why didn’t I tell him?

  My phone chimes with an incoming text, the sound making me want to smash it with a hammer. I’ve been getting nonstop texts ever since I walked through the door last night, and I don’t know why I haven’t silenced the damn thing. With a sigh, I turn away from the mirror above my old dresser where I was finishing with my makeup, and walk over to my bed where I tossed my phone before I got in the shower.

  Just as I suspected, another so-called “friend” from New York, who sent me a link to the article that ran in the New York Times yesterday. This is probably the main reason I clammed up with Clint. Not that I had any idea this article was going to happen, but just the fact that even though it crashed and burned, I still kind of have a life back in New York. One that is starting to look a little brighter than it did a few months ago.

  Felicity Kennedy finally sat down for an interview. And she finally pulled her head out of her ass and realized I wasn’t the one to blame for her marriage going to shit. She uncovered no less than three other women Stephen was having an affair with during their marriage, aside from me. That motherfucking dirtbag. She apologized “to the poor woman I called a homewrecker, and I greatly regret punching her in the face” and announced that she had filed for divorce.

  I don’t even know how to feel about this shit. I’m pissed, I’m hurt, my ego is still bruised from the bashing it took all over New York and social media, and my desire to chop off Stephen’s balls and shove them down his throat hasn’t lessened. But this news article hasn’t made me as happy as I thought it would. I should be ecstatic that the dust is clearing and it’s looking like New York just might welcome me back with
open arms, instead of pointing and laughing. It doesn’t make me happy, though. It just makes me feel blah. Clint isn’t in New York. Mia and Grace aren’t in New York. And my dad, as annoying as he is, isn’t there either. I feel closer to him than I ever have before, and the thought of leaving any time soon makes my stomach hurt. But what am I supposed to do here? Live happily ever after with Clint and the girls?

  Yes, you stupid moron!

  If only it were that easy. I can’t just live with my dad and… what? Be a nanny for the rest of my life? I adore those girls, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I really love hanging out with them. Yet that’s not who I am. No matter how much I’ve enjoyed being back home, I’m starting to crawl out of my skin with nothing else to keep me occupied.

  With a sigh, I shove my phone into the clutch on my bed and head out of my room. It’s not like I need to decide right now. I mean, Clint and I only shared one kiss. One amazing, hot-as-fuck kiss I’d like to repeat as soon as possible, but still. Also, we haven’t even had sex. What if he’s a dud? What if he’s finished in ten seconds, rolls over, and goes to sleep? That type of compatibility needs scientific proof that it will work. Preferably multiple times, in multiple locations, and with multiple orgasms before a decision can be made.

  When my goddamn vagina starts tingling just remembering what he felt like between my thighs, with that impressive package rubbing up against me, I know I’m just fooling myself. The test results are in, and they are conclusive. We have a sex match!

  And honestly, just because he said all those nice things about me doesn’t exactly mean he wants me to stick around forever. This is only our first date, for fuck’s sake, and I’m already worrying about what will come next. It will probably be the worst date in history, and then, I won’t even have to worry about any of this. And besides, he knows I live in New York. I’m sure he’s just assuming this is a temporary thing until summer is over and the girls go back to school.

  That thought makes my stomach churn again, and I have to press my hand against it as I make my way out into the living room.

  My dad looks up from the crossword puzzle book sitting on the arm of the recliner, giving me a onceover.

  “That’s what you’re wearing?”

  I have no clue where Clint is taking me tonight. He left a note for me on the kitchen table this morning, since he would be busy working all day, and it just said he would pick me up at my dad’s house at seven. Since the only casual clothes I have are the jean shorts and tees I wear to take care of the girls, I drove an hour away to the closest Target as soon as I got off work and picked up a dress. I could have worn something designer that I brought with me, but that just seemed stupid at this point. White Timber isn’t a designer place, and I wanted Clint to be proud to take me out in public, not embarrassed because I looked like I didn’t fit in.

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I ask in annoyance, glancing down at myself.

  The nights can get a little chilly here this close to the mountains, so I went with something with cuffed, three-quarter-length sleeves just in case I get cold. It’s a red and black plaid shirt dress, and it actually looks like one of Clint’s flannel shirts, which is what made me buy it without even trying it on. Since Clint requested I show off plenty of my “killer fucking legs,” I’m hoping he’ll like the fact that the dress comes to right above mid-thigh, and I paired it with my red cowboy boots.

  I even treated myself to a box of Rich Mahogany hair color at the general store the other day. I had just enough time after the long drive to and from Target to put the dye in my hair, take a quick shower, shave every body part, rinse out the dye, and get ready. I left my newly colored hair hanging down around my back and shoulders and added a few soft curls to it. I thought I looked pretty damn good, but clearly my father thinks otherwise.

  “Nothing’s wrong with what you’re wearing. But you could have at least shown a little more skin and put some real effort into it for Clint,” he informs me.

  Jesus Christ.

  “What happened to you wanting to fill his ass with lead?” I remind him.

  “Eh, we’re past that now. He’s okay in my book. Especially since you’ve been walking through that door every night with a disgusting, sappy smile on your face, and you’re leaving my good tequila alone,” he says nonchalantly.

  I call bullshit.

  Raising one eyebrow, I put my hands on my hips and tap my booted foot against the hardwood floor. It only takes thirty seconds for him to give in.

  “Fine! So I’ve got fifty bucks riding on Clint making his move tonight, and if I don’t win that six grand in the pot, I’ll never get the fishing boat I’ve had my eye on,” he complains.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake!

  Clint sent me a text last night informing me that there was currently a bet going around town on when he’d “give me the business.” I told him he damn well better put all his money on every day this week. I mean, six thousand dollars is a lot of money. What did you expect me to respond with? I don’t feel as pleased with this knowledge now that I know my dad is in on it. I feel like I should take a shower with bleach.

  “Dad, you’ve never gone fishing a day in your life. Or driven a boat. What the hell would you need with a fishing boat?”

  He glares at me, smacking his pencil down on top of the crossword puzzle book.

  “What if, one day, I decide I want to go fishing, on my very own boat? I’m gonna look out the kitchen window into my driveway, and you know what I’ll see? Not my own fucking fishing boat, that’s for sure!”

  Thankfully, there’s a knock at the door, and I don’t have to worry about giving my dad any more heart problems by strangling him.

  Rushing out of the living room, I go the front door, pausing to take a few calming breaths. I wasn’t really nervous about going on an actual date with Clint, but now that he’s here, butterflies are flapping around my stomach and my heart is about ready to beat out of my chest. Once I calm myself down as much as I can, I open the door.

  “Fucking hell, fancy pants,” Clint mutters under his breath, his eyes trailing down my body and back up again.

  Cue the damn butterflies all over again.

  “Yeah, you look all right I guess. At least you took a shower,” I muse, not wanting him to know that if my dad weren’t a few feet away, I’d be jumping into his arms and wrapping my legs around his hips.

  Good God, is he hot. All the scruff has been shaved from his face, leaving his chiseled jaw and adorable dimples in perfect view. It looks like he got a haircut today, the sides cut extra close to his scalp and the longer top pushed back away from his face. He’s wearing jeans, but these aren’t his normal, faded, well-worn Levis he wears around the farm. He’s got on a pair of dark jeans that fit him in all the right places, resting low on his hips. A white Henley that looks like it was tailor made to hug all of his muscles is pushed up to his elbows and tucked into his jeans with a brown belt. The cuffs of his jeans are pulled down over a pair of dark brown, leather work boots, and I can’t help but smile that the entire outfit looks brand new and I wasn’t the only one who needed to do some shopping and hair upkeep for this date.

  “So, where are you taking me? Is it a nerd convention? Am I overdressed?” I ask cheekily.

  “Keep it up, smartass, and I’ll take you to Best Buy and make you listen to me argue with the Geek Squad about whether a Mac or Windows computer is more superior,” he says with a smile, reaching out, grabbing my hand, and tugging me out the door.

  “Fishing boat, Brooklyn Marie! Fishing boat!” my dad shouts from the living room as I hurry and pull the door closed behind me.

  “What was that all about?” Clint asks with a laugh as we walk over to his truck and he pulls open the passenger side door for me.

  “It’s best if we just pretend like that never happened,” I tell him.

  I watch Clint round the front of the truck after he shuts me in, my knee bouncing up and down with nervous excitement for what
ever he has planned. A plan that I really hope ends in this dress being on his bedroom floor. Or the stable floor. Or his office floor. Or even draped over Jack from Jack’s Auto Repair’s shoulder in the Maple Inn bathroom, while he pisses in the sink and we rattle the bathroom stall doors.

  My phone chimes with another fucking text from inside my purse as soon as Clint gets behind the wheel, and the skyline of New York at night flashes through my head, killing my pervy thoughts.

  Clint glances over at me, and I wave him off as he starts the truck and turns it around to head down the driveway.

  “It’s fine. Nothing important.”

  He keeps glancing over at me every few seconds as he drives, and after a few minutes, I have to laugh.

  “Go ahead. I know you’re dying to tell me whether a Mac or Windows is more superior.”

  He gives me a sheepish look and shakes his head. It only takes two miles before he breaks.

  “I mean, come on! The OS X operating system is a clean, refined, easy-to-use interface with…”

  I start counting all the trees we drive past and only half pay attention to what he’s saying, but I’ve suddenly forgotten all about the texts on my phone and the New York City skyline.

  Chapter 18

  CLINT

  Baggage Life

  White Timber isn’t big, but what it lacks in size, it makes up for in small town quaintness. Main Street is just as the name suggests—it’s the one and only “main” street downtown. And “downtown” consists of just one street, with businesses lining either side for a few blocks, ending at the town square, and a view of the mountains off in the distance behind all the buildings on the right side of the street. The town square is about an acre in size, a grassy area lined with trees on all sides that has a gazeebo in the middle, with several picnic tables surrounding it.

  We ate dinner on the steps of the gazebo, with a strand of those big bulb lights lining the roof of it to help us see after the sun went down.